DAUGHTER 

OF  THE 

MORNING 


ZONA 
GALE 


OF  THE 
UNnrERfilTY 


(y/lCAAJ^  '  ^»    ^     jT 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE 
MORNING 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

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IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/daughterofmorninOOgalerich 


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Cosma 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE 
MORNING 


ZONA  GALE 

Author  of 

Friendship  Village,  When  I  Was  a  Little  Girl 

Neighborhood  Stories,  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

W.  B.  KING 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1917 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  ft  CO. 

BOOK  MANUFACTURERa 

BROOKLYN.   N.  V. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE 
MORNING 


M645878 


A  Daughter  of  the 
Morning 

CHAPTER   I 

I  FOUND  this  paper  on  the  cellar  shelf.  It 
come  around  the  boys'  new  overalls. 
When  I  was  cutting  it  up  in  sheets  with  the 
butcher  knife  on  the  kitchen  table,  Ma  come 
in,  and  she  says : 

"What  you  doin'  nowf^' 

The  way  she  says  "now"  made  me  feel  like 
IVe  felt  before — mad  and  ready  to  fly.  So 
I  says  it  right  out,  that  I'd  meant  to  keep  a 
secret.    I  says : 

"I'm  makin'  me  a  book." 

"Book!"  she  says.     "For  the  receipts  you 
know?"  she  says,  and  laughed  like  she  knows 
how.    I  hate  cooking,  and  she  knows  it. 
9 


10    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  went  on  tying  it  up. 

"Be  writing  a  book  next,  I  s'pose,"  says  Ma, 
and  laughed  again. 

"It  ain't  that  kind  of  a  book,"  I  says.  "This 
is  just  to  keep  track." 

"Well,  you'd  best  be  doing  something  use- 
ful," says  Ma.  "Go  out  and  pull  up  some  rad- 
ishes for  your  Pa's  supper." 

I  went  on  tying  up  the  sheets,  though,  with 
pink  string  that  come  around  Pa's  patent  med- 
icine. When-  it  was  done  I  run  my  hand  over 
the  page,  and  I  liked  the  feeling  on  my  hand. 
Then  I  saw  Ma  coming  up  the  back  steps  with 
the  radishes.  I  was  going  to  say  something, 
because  I  hadn't  gone  to  get  them,  but  she  says : 

"Nobody  ever  tries  to  save  me  a  foot  of  trav- 
elin'  around." 

And  then  I  didn't  care  whether  I  said  it  or 
not.  So  I  kept  still.  She  washed  off  the  rad- 
ishes, bending  over  the  sink  that's  in  too  low. 
She'd  wet  the  front  of  her  skirt  with  some  suds 
of  something  she'd  washed  out,  and  her  cuffs 
was  wet,  and  her  hair  was  coming  down. 

"It's  rack  around  from  morning  till  night," 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     11 

she  says,  "doing  for  folks  that  don't  care  about 
anything  so's  they  get  their  stomachs  filled." 

"You  might  talk,"  I  says,  "if  you  was  Mis' 
Keddie  Bingy." 

"Why?  Has  anything  more  happened  to 
her?"  Ma  asked. 

"Nothing  new,"  I  says.  "Keddie  was  drink- 
ing all  over  the  house  last  night.  I  heard  him 
singing  and  swearing — ^and  once  I  heard  her 
scream." 

"He'll  kill  her  yet,"  says  Ma.  "And  then 
she'll  be  through  with  it.  I'm  so  tired  to-night 
I  wisht  I  was  dead.  All  day  long  I've  been  at 
it — floors  to  mop,  dinner  to  get,  water  to  lug." 

"Quit  going  on  about  it,  Ma,"  I  says. 

"You're  a  pretty  one  to  talk  to  me  like  that," 
says  Ma. 

She  set  the  radishes  on  the  kitchen  table  and 
went  to  the  back  door.  One  of  her  shoes 
dragged  at  the  heel,  and  a  piece  of  her  skirt 
hung  below  her  dress. 

"Jim!"  she  shouted,  "your  supper's  ready. 
Come  along  and  eat  it," — and  stood  there 
twisting  her  hair  up. 


12    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Pa  come  up  on  the  porch  in  a  minute.  His 
feet  were  all  mud  from  the  fields,  and  the  min- 
ute he  stepped  on  Ma's  clean  floor  she  begun 
on  him.  He  never  said  a  word,  but  he  tracked 
back  and  forth  from  the  wash  bench  to  the 
water  pail,  making  his  big  black  footprints 
every  step.  I  should  think  she  would  have 
been  mad.  But  she  said  what  she  said  about 
half  a  dozen  times — not  mad,  only  just  whin- 
ing and  complaining  and  like  she  expected  it. 
The  trouble  was,  she  said  it  so  many  times. 

"When  you  go  on  so,  I  don't  care  how  I 
track  up,"  says  Pa,  and  dropped  down  to  the 
table.  He  filled  up  his  plate  and  doubled  down 
over  it,  and  Ma  and  I  got  ours. 

"What  was  you  and  Stacy  talkin*  about  so 
long  over  the  fence?"  Ma  says,  after  a  while. 

"It's  no  concern  of  yours,"  says  Pa.  "But 
I'll  tell  ye,  just  to  show  ye  what  some  women 
have  to  put  up  with.  Keddie  Bingy  hit  her 
over  the  head  with  a  dish  in  the  night.  It's 
laid  her  up,  and  he's  down  to  the  Dew  Drop 
Inn,  filling  himself  full." 

"She's  used  to  it  by  this  time,  I  guess,"  Ma 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     13 

says.  "Just  as  well  take  it  all  at  once  as  die 
by  inches,  /  say." 

"Trot  out  your  pie/*  says  Pa. 

As  soon  as  I  could  after  we'd  done  the 
dishes,  I  took  my  book  up  to  the  room.  Ma 
and  I  slept  together.  Pa  had  the  bedroom  off 
the  dining-room.  I  had  the  bottom  bureau 
drawer  to  myself  for  my  clothes.  I  put  my 
book  in  there,  and  I  found  a  pencil  in  the  ma- 
chine drawer,  and  I  put  that  by  it.  I'd  wanted 
to  make  the  book  for  a  long  time,  to  set  down 
thoughts  in,  and  keep  track  of  the  different 
things.  But  I  didn't  feel  like  making  the  book 
any  more  by  the  time  I  got  it  all  ready.  I  went 
to  laying  out  my  underclothes  in  the  drawer 
so's  the  lace  edge  would  show  on  all  of  'em 
that  had  it. 

Ma  come  to  the  side  door  and  called  me. 

"Cossy,"  she  says,  "is  Luke  comin'  to- 
night?" 

"I  s'pose  so,"  I  says. 

"Well,  then,  you  go  right  straight  over  to 
Mis'  Bingy's  before  he  gets  here,"  Ma  says. 

I  went  down  the  stairs — they  had  a  blotched 


14    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

carpet  that  I  hated  because  it  looked  Hke  raw 
meat  and  gristle. 

"Why  don't  you  go  yourself?"  I  says. 

"Because  Mis'  Bingy'll  be  ashamed  before 
me/*  she  says ;  "but  she  won't  think  you  know 
about  it.    Take  her  this." 

I  took  the  loaf  of  steam  brown  bread. 

"If  Luke  comes,"  I  says,  "have  him  walk 
along  after  me." 

The  way  to  Mis'  Bingy's  was  longer  to  go 
by  the  road,  or  short  through  the  wood-lot. 
I  went  by  the  road,  because  I  thought  maybe 
I  might  meet  somebody.  The  worst  of  the 
farm  wasn't  only  the  work.  It  was  never  seein' 
anybody.  I  only  met  a  few  wagons,  and  none 
of  'em  stopped  to  say  anything.  Lena  Curtsy 
went  by,  dressed  up  in  black-and-white,  with  a 
long  veil.  She  looks  like  a  circus  rider,  not 
only  Sundays  but  every  day.  But  Luke  likes 
the  look  of  her,  he  said  so. 

"You're  goin'  the  wrong  way,  Cossy!"  she 
calls  out. 

"No,  I  ain't,  either,"  I  says,  short  enough. 
I  can't  bear  the  sight  of  her.    And  yet,  if  I 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     15 

have  anything  to  brag  about,  it's  always  her 
I  want  to  brag  it  to. 

Just  when  I  turned  off  to  Bingy's,  I  met  the 
boys.  We  never  waited  supper  for  'em,  be- 
cause sometimes  they  gtt  home  and  sometimes 
they  don't.  They  were  coming  from  the  end 
of  the  street-car  Hne,  black  from  the  blast  fur- 
nace. 

"Where  you  goin',  kid?"  says  Bert. 

I  nodded  to  the  house. 

"Well,  then,  tell  her  she'd  better  watch  out 
for  Bingy,"  says  Henny.  "He's  crazy  drunk 
down  to  the  Dew  Drop.  I  wouldn't  stay  there 
if  I  was  her." 

I  ran  the  rest  of  the  way  to  the  Bingy  house. 
I  went  round  to  the  back  door.  Mis'  Bingy 
was  in  the  kitchen,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed.  She  had  the  bed  put  up  in  the  kitchen 
when  the  baby  was  born,  and  she'd  kept  it  there 
all  the  year.  When  I  stepped  on  to  the  boards, 
she  jumped  and  screamed. 

"Here's  some  steam  brown  bread,"  I  says. 

She  set  down  again,  trembling  all  over.  The 
baby  was  laying  over  back  in  the  bed,  and  it 


16    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

woke  up  and  whimpered.  Mis'  Bingy  kind  of 
poored  it  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
she  pushed  up  the  bandage  around  her  head. 
She  was  big  and  wild-looking,  and  her  hajir 
was  always  coming  down  in  a  long,  coiled-up 
mess  on  her  shoulders.  Her  hands  looked 
worse  than  Ma's. 

"I  guess  I  look  funny,  don't  I?"  she  says, 
trying  to  smile.  *T  cut  my  head  open  some — 
by  accident." 

I  hate  a  lie.  Not  because  it's  wicked  so  much 
as  because  it  never  fools  anybody. 

"Mis'  Bingy,"  I  says,  "I  know  that  Mr. 
Bingy  threw  a  dish  at  you  last  night  and  cut 
your  head  open,  because  he  was  drunk.  Well, 
I  just  met  Henny,  and  he  says  he's  down  to 
the  Inn,  crazy  drunk.  Henny  don't  want  you 
should  stay  here." 

She  kind  of  give  out,  as  though  her  spine 
wouldn't  hold  up.  I  guess  she  had  the  idea 
none  of  the  neighbors  knew. 

"Where  can  I  go?"  she  says. 

There  was  only  one  place  that  I  could  think 
of.    "Come  on  over  with  me,"  I  says.    "Pa 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     17 

and  the  boys  are  there.  They  won't  let  him 
hurt  you." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'd  have  to  come  back 
some  time,"  she  says. 

"Why  would  you?"  I  asked  her. 

She  looked  at  me  kind  of  funny. 

"He's  my  husband,"  she  says — and  she  kind 
of  straightened  up  and  looked  dignified,  with- 
out meaning  to.  I  just  stood  and  looked  at 
her.  Think  of  it  making  her  look  like  that  to 
own  that  drunken  coward  for  a  husband! 

"What  if  he  is  ?"  I  says.  "He's  a  brute,  and 
we  all  know  it." 

She  cried  a  little.  "You  hadn't  ought  to 
speak  to  me  so,"  she  says.  "If  I  go,  hoWll  I 
earn  my  living,  and  the  baby's?"  she  says. 

I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  "That's  so,"  I 
says.    "You  are  tied,  ain't  you?" 

I  couldn't  get  her  to  come  with  me.  She's 
got  the  bed  made  up  in  the  front  room  up- 
stairs, and  she  was  going  up  there  that  night 
and  lock  her  door,  and  leave  the  kitchen  open. 

"He  may  not  be  so  bad,"  she  says.  "Maybe 
he'll  be  so  drunk  he'll  tumble  on  the  bed  asleep, 


18    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

or  maybe  he'll  be  sick.    I  always  hope  for  one 

of  them/' 

f 
I  went  back  through  the  wood-lot.    It  was  so 

different  out  there  from  home  and  Mis'  Bingy's 

that  it  felt  good.    I  found  a  place  in  a  book 

once  that  told  about  the  woods.    It  gave  me  a 

nice  feeling.    I  used  to  get  it  out  of  the  school 

library  whenever  it  was  in  and  read  the  place 

over,  to  get  the  feeling  again.    Almost  always 

it  gave  it  to  me.    In  the  real  woods  I  didn't 

always  get  it.    They  come  so  close  up  to  me 

that  they  bothered  me.     I  always  thought  I 

was  going  to  get  to  something,  and  I  never  did. 

And  yet  I  always  liked  it  in  the  wood-lot.    And 

it  was  nice  to  be  away  from  home  and  from 

Mis'  Bingy's. 

I  forgot  the  whole  bunch  of  'em  for  a  while. 

It  was  the  night  of  a  moon,  and  you  could  see 

it  in  the  trees,  like  a  big  fat  face  that  was 

friends  with  you.    When  a  bird  did  just  one 

note,  it  felt  pleasant.    After  a  while  I  stopped 

still,  because  it  seemed  as  if  something  was 

near  to  me;  but  I  wasn't  scared,  even  if  it  was 

quite  dark.    I  thought  to  myself  that  I  wisht 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     19 

my  family  and  all  the  folks  I  knew  was  still 
and  kept  to  themselves  same  as  the  trees  does, 
instead  of  rushing  at  you  every  minute,  out 
loud.  I  never  knew  any  folks  that  acted  dif- 
ferent from  that,  though.  Luke  was  just  like 
that,  too. 

I  was  thinking  of  this  when  I  see  him  com- 
ing to  meet  me,  down  the  path.  He  ain't  a  big 
man,  Luke. 

"Hello,  Cossy,"  he  says.    "That  you?'* 

"Hello,  Luke,"  I  says.  I  dunno  why  it  is 
— with  the  boys  at  home  I  can  joke.  But  Luke, 
he  always  makes  me  feel  just  plain.  I  just  says 
"Hello,  Luke,"  and  stood  still,  and  waited  for 
him  to  come  up  to  me.  He  turned  and  walked 
along  beside  me. 

"I  was  afraid  I  wouldn't  meet  you,"  he  says. 
"I  was  afraid  I'd  miss  you.  My,  it's  a  good 
thing  to  get  you  somewheres  by  yourself." 

"Why?"  I  says. 

"Oh,  the  boys  are  always  around,  or  your  pa, 
or  somebody.  I've  got  a  right  to  talk  to  you 
sometimes  by  yourself." 

"Well,  go  ahead,  then.    Talk  to  me." 


20    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

All  of  a  sudden  he  stopped  still  in  the  path. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  he  ask. 

"Mean  what?"  I  says.  I  couldn't  think  what 
he  meant. 

"That  I  can  talk  to  you  now?    My  way?" 

"Oh,"  I  says.  I  knew  then.  I  guess  I 
should  have  known  before,  if  I'd  stopped  to 
think.  But  someway  I  never  could  put  my 
mind  on  Luke  all  the  time  he  was  saying  any- 
thing. 

"Cossy,"  he  says,  "I've  tried  to  talk  to  you; 
you  always  got  round  it  or  else  somebody  else 
come  in.    You  know  what  I  want." 

I  didn't  say  anything.  I  sort  of  waited,  not 
so  much  to  see  what  he  was  going  to  do  as  to 
see  what  I  was  going  to  do. 

Then  he  didn't  say  anything.  But  he  put  his 
arm  around  me,  and  put  his  hand  around  my 
arm.  I  let  him.  I  wasn't  mad,  so  I  didn't 
pretend. 

"Let's  us  sit  down  here,"  he  says. 

We  sat  under  a  big  tree  and  he  drew  my 
head  down  on  his  shoulder. 

'■'You're   all  kinds   of   a  peach,"   he   says, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    21 

"that's  what  you  are,  Cossy— I  bet  you've 
known  for  weeks  I  want  you  to  marry  me. 
Ain't  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "I  s'pose  I  have." 

He  laughed.    "You're  a  funny  girl,"  he  says. 

"It's  silly  to  pretend,"  I  says. 

"You  bet,"  he  says,  "it's  silly  to  pretend. 
Give  me  a  kiss,  then.    Kiss  me  yourself." 

I  did.  I  had  to  see  whether  I  was  pretending 
not  to  want  to,  or  whether  I  really  didn't  want 
to.    I  see  right  away  that  I  didn't  want  to. 

"Marry  me,  Cossy,"  he  says.    "Will  you?" 

I  was  twenty  years  old.  For  a  long  time  Ma 
had  been  asking  me  why  I  didn't  marry  some 
nice  young  man.  "Marry  some  nice  young 
man,"  she  says.  "You'll  be  happier,  Cossy." 
Why  would  I  be  happier,  I  wondered.  What 
would  make  me  happy?  There  would  be,  I 
supposed,  a  great  deal  of  this  kind  of  thing. 
I  thought  it  was  honest  to  talk  it  over  with 
Luke. 

"What  for?"  I  says. 

"Because  I  love  you,"  says  Luke  serious; 
"and  I  want  you." 


22    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  laughed  out  loud.  "Them's  funny  reasons 
for  a  bargain,"  I  says. 

He  kind  of  drew  off.  "Oh,  well,"  he  says, 
"it's  all  I've  got.  If  you  don't  think  it  amounts 
to  anything — " 

"That's  why  you  should  marry  me,'*  I  says. 
"But  I  want  to  know  why  I  should  marry 
you." 

"Don't  you  love  me?"  says  Luke. 

"I  donno,"  I  told  him.  "I  don't  like  to  kiss 
you  so  very  well." 

"Cossy,  listen,"  Luke  said.  "All  that'll  come. 
Honest,  it  will,  dear.  Just  trust  me,  and  marry 
me.    I  need  you." 

"Well,  but,  Luke,"  I  says,  "I  donno  if  I  need 
you.    I  don't  believe  I  do." 

"You  listen  here,"  he  says,  sort  of  mad. 
"You'll  have  a  home  of  your  own — " 

"Why,  wouldn't  I  live  on  your  folks's 
farm?"  I  says. 

"Oh,  well,  yes,"  Luke  says.  "But — I  love 
you,  Cossy!"  he  ends  up.  "Can't  you  under- 
stand?   I  love  you." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    23 

He  said  it  like  the  reason.  I  begun  to  think 
it  was. 

"YouVe  got  to  marry  somebody,"  says 
Luke. 

I  knew  that  well  enough.  Home  was  bad 
enough  now,  but  when  one  of  the  boys  brought 
a  wife  there  it  would  be  worse.  Fd  have  to 
marry  somebody. 

"Fd  like  to  get  away  from  home,"  I  says. 
**Ma  and  I  don't  get  along,  and  Pa's  like  a 
bear  the  whole  time." 

"You'd  ought  not  to  say  such  things,  Cossy," 
says  Luke. 

"Why  not?"  I  says.  "They're  true.  That 
is  about  the  only  reason  I  can  think  of  why  I 
should  marry  you.  That,  and  because  Fve  got 
to  marry  somebody." 

I  thought  he'd  be  mad.  Instead,  he  had  his 
arms  around  me  and  was  kissing  me. 

"I  don't  care  what  you  marry  me  for,"  he 
says.    "Marry  me,  anyhow!" 

I  thought:  "I  s'pose  I'd  get  used  to  him. 
I  don't  like  the  boys,  either.     I  can't  bear 


24    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Henny.  Every  girl  seems  to  act  as  if  It  was 
all  right,  after  she  gets  away.    Maybe  it  is." 

Two  people  were  coming  along  the  path. 
Luke  and  I  sat  still — it  was  so  dark  nobody 
could  notice  us  where  we  were.  I  heard  them 
talking  and  then  I  heard  Ma's  voice.  I  knew 
right  off  Henny  had  told  her  about  Keddie, 
and  she  was  going  to  try  to  get  Mis'  Bingy  to 
come  home  with  us. 

".  .  .  On  my  feet  from  morning  till 
night,"  she  was  saying,  "till  it  seems  as  though 
I  should  drop.    I  don't  know  how  I  stand  it." 

Pa  was  with  her.  "Stand  it,  stand  it!"  he 
says.  "Anybody'd  think  you  had  the  pest  in 
the  house.    I'm  sick  of  hearin'  you  whine." 

"I  know,'*  says  Ma,  "nobody  thinks  I'm 
worth  anything  now.  But  after  I'm  dead  and 
gone — " 

"Oh,  shut  up,"  says  Pa.  And  they  went 
by  us. 

I  stood  up,  all  of  a  sudden.  Anything  would 
be  better  than  home. 

"Luk^~"  I  says. 

In  a  few  years  maybe  him  and  me  would  be 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    25 

talking  the  same  as  Ma  and  Pa.  Maybe  he'd 
be  hanging  around  the  Dew  Drop  Inn,  same 
as  Keddie  Bingy.  What  of  it?  All  women 
took  the  chance. 

"Luke,"  I  says,  "all  right." 

"Do  you  mean  you  will?"  says  Luke.  I 
liked  him  the  best  I'd  ever  liked  him,  the  way 
he  says  that. 

"I  said  'all  right,'  "  I  says.  "You  be  a  good 
husband  to  me  and  I'll  be  a  good  wife  to  you." 

Luke  kind  of  scared  me,  he  was  so  glad. 

On  the  way  home  he  didn't  talk  much.  As 
soon  as  we  got  to  our  house  I  made  him  go. 
I'd  begun  to  feel  the  tired  way  I  do  every  time 
I'm  with  him — as  if  I'd  ironed  or  done  up 
fruit. 

Ma  and  Pa  hadn't  come  back  yet.  I  went 
up  to  Ma's  and  my  room  and  lit  the  lamp.  It 
was  on  a  bracket,  and  stuck  up  behind  it  was  a 
picture  of  me  when  I  was  a  baby.  I  just  stood 
and  stared  at  it.  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  before 
— but  what  if  Luke  and  I  should  have  one? 

"No,  sir!  No,  sir!  No,  sir!"  I  says,  all  the 
while  I  put  myself  to  bed. 


CHAPTER   II 

TOWARD  morning  I  heard  somebody 
scream.  I  was  dreaming  that  I  was  with 
Luke  in  the  grove,  and  that  he  touched  my 
hand,  and  that  it  was  me  that  screamed.  I 
heard  it  again  and  again,  with  another  noise. 
Then  I  woke  up.  It  wasn't  me.  It  was  some- 
body else. 

I  sat  up  in  bed  and  shook  Ma.  She  snores, 
and  I  couldn't  hardly  wake  her.  By  the  time 
she  sat  up  I  heard  Pa  move.  When  we  got  to 
the  stairs  I  heard  him  at  the  back  door. 

"What's  wanted?"  I  heard  him  say. 

"Quick,  quick!  Lemme  in!  Lemme  in!"  I 
heard  from  outside.  I  knew  it  was  Mis'  Bingy. 
We  got  down-stairs  just  as  Pa  opened  the  door, 
and  she  come  in.  Everything  about  her  was 
blowing — ^her  long  hair  and  her  outing  night- 
gown and  the  baby's  shawl.  She  could  hardly 
breathe,  and  she  leaned  against  the  door  and 
tried  to  lock  it.  I  went  and  locked  it  for  her. 
26 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    27 

She  sat  down,  and  the  baby  was  awake  and 
crying,  so  she  jounced  it  up  and  down,  with- 
out knowing  she  was  doing  it,  while  she  told 
what  was  the  matter.  She  twisted  up  her  hair, 
and  I  didn't  think  she  knew  she  done  that, 
either.  She  had  on  a  blue  calico  waist  to  a 
work  dress,  over  her  nightgown,  and  her  bare 
feet  were  in  shoes,  with  the  laces  dangling. 
Ma  took  one  look  at  her,  and  went  and  put  on 
the  teakettle.  She  said  afterward  she  never 
knew  she  done  that,  either. 

Mis'  Bingy  told  us  what  happened.  She  had 
been  laying  awake  up-stairs  when  he  come 
home.  He  called  her,  and  she  didn't  answer. 
Then  he  brought  a  flatiron  and  beat  at  the 
door.  Then  he  yelled  that  he'd  bring  the  ax. 
When  he  went  for  it,  she  slipped  out  of  her 
bedroom  and  locked  the  door,  and  hid  in  the 
closet  under  the  stairs  till  she  heard  him  run 
up  'em.    Then  she  started. 

"He'll  kill  me,"  she  says.  "He  said  he'd 
kill  me.  I've  never  known  him  like  this  be- 
fore." 

Pa  come  back  from  his  room,  part  dressed. 


28    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"I'll  go  and  get  the  constable,"  he  says. 

"Oh,"  says  Mis'  Bingy,  "don't  arrest  him  I 
Don't  do  that!" 

"Lookin'  for  to  be  killed?"  says  Pa.  "And 
us,  too,  for  a-harborin'  you  here?" 

She  fell  to  crying  then,  and  the  baby  cried. 
Mis'  Bingy  said  things  to  herself  that  we 
couldn't  understand.  Ma  come  and  brought 
her  a  cup  of  hot  water  with  the  tea  that  was 
left  in  the  teapot  poured  in  it.  Ma  had  a  cal- 
ico skirt  around  her  shoulders,  and  she  was  in 
her  bare  feet. 

"He'll  kill  you"  Ma  says  to  Pa,  "on  your 
way  to  the  constable.  I  wouldn't  go  past  that 
house  for  anything,  to-night." 

I  remember  how  anxious  she  looked  at  him. 
She  was  anxious,  like  Mis'  Bingy' d  been  when 
she  said  not  to  arrest  Keddie. 

Pa  muttered,  but  he  didn't  go  out.  In  a  lit- 
tle while,  Ma  said  best  get  some  rest,  so  we 
went  up  to  the  room  again,  and  took  Mis* 
Bingy.  Her  and  Ma  laid  down  on  the  bed, 
and  I  got  the  canvas  cot  that  was  folded  up  in 
there.     My  feet  stuck  out,  and  I  couldn't  go 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    29 

to  sleep.  But  the  funny  thing  to  me  was  that 
both  Ma  and  Mis'  Bingy  went  to  sleep  in  a 
little  while. 

I  laid  there,  waiting  for  it  to  get  light.  The 
window  was  a  little  bit  gray,  and  off  in  the 
wood-lot  I  could  hear  a  bird  wake  up  and  go  to 
sleep  again.  I  liked  it.  Early  in  the  morning 
always  seemed  to  me  like  some  other  time. 
Things  acted  as  if  they  was  something  else. 
Even  the  bureau  looked  different.  .  .  .  Pretty 
soon  the  sky  changed,  and  the  dark  was  thin 
enough  so  I  could  see  Ma  and  Mis'  Bingy. 
Ma's  light-colored  hair  had  got  all  around  her 
face.  I  thought  how  young  she  looked  asleep. 
She  looked  so  little  and  soft.  She  looked  as  if 
she'd  be  nice.  I  guess  she  w^ould  have  been 
if  she  hadn't  had  so  much  to  do.  I  never 
remembered  her  when  she  didn't  have  too 
much  to  do,  except  once  when  she  broke 
her  arm;  and  her  arm  hurt  her  so  that  she  was 
cross  anyway.  Once,  when  the  boys  bought 
her  a  plaid  silk,  she  was  nice  for  two  days ;  but 
then  wash-day  come  and  spoiled  it  again,  and 
she  couldn't  get  back. 


30    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Ma  never  had  much.  I  don't  believe  any 
of  us  know  her  like  she'd  be  if  she  had  things 
to  do  with,  and  didn't  have  to  work  so  hard, 
and  Pa  and  the  boys  wasn't  all  the  iime  picking 
on  her.  They  all  say  mean  things.  I  do,  too, 
of  course.  I  always  dread  our  meals.  We 
don't  scrap  over  anything  particular,  but  every- 
thing that  comes  up,  somebody's  always  got 
some  lip  to  answer  back.  And  Ma's  easy 
teased  and  always  looking  for  slaps.  That's 
me,  too;  I'm  easy  teased,  though  I  don't  look 
for  it.  Laying  there  asleep.  Ma  seemed  like 
somebody  I  didn't  know,  and  I  felt  sorry  for 
her.     She  was  having  a  rotten  life. 

And  Mis'  Bingy.  The  bandage  was  off  her 
head,  and  I  saw  the  big  red  mark.  She  was 
awful  thin  and  blue-looking,  with  cords  in  her 
neck.  She  was  young,  not  more  than  thirty. 
Ma  was  old;  Ma  was  forty,  and,  awake,  she 
looked  it.  I  could  see  Mis'  Bingy's  bare  arm, 
and  it  was  strong  as  an  ox.  It  laid  around  the 
baby,  that  was  sleeping  on  her  chest.  I  liked 
to  look  at  it.  But  I  thought  about  her  life, 
too,  and  I  wondered  how  either  Ma  or  her 


r     A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    31 

kept  going  at  all.  And  what  made  them  will- 
ing to.  Neither  of  'em  was  having  a  real  life. 
Look  what  love  had  brought  them  to.    .    .    . 

And  there  was  me,  starting  in  the  same  way, 
with  Luke, 

It  was  broad  daylight  by  then,  so  I  could  see 
around  the  room.  There  wasn't  a  carpet,  and 
the  plaster  was  cracked.  So  was  the  pitcher, 
that  was  just  for  show,  anyhow,  because  we 
washed  in  the  kitchen.  I'd  tried  to  fill  it  for  a 
while,  but  Ma  said  it  was  putting  on.  In  a 
little  bit  we  would  all  be  sprucing  up  in  the 
kitchen,  with  Ma  trying  to  get  breakfast  and 
everybody  yipping  out  at  everybody  else. 

And  Fd  just  fixed  it  so's  that  all  my  life 
would  he  the  same  thing  as  their  lives. 

I  slipped  out  of  bed  and  began  to  dress.  It 
wasn't  Sunday,  but  I  opened  the  drawer  where 
my  underclothes  were,  and  took  out  them  that 
had  lace  edging.  I  put  on  my  best  shoes  and 
my  white  stockings.  Then  I  went  out  in  the 
hall  closet  and  got  down  my  new  muslin  that 
I'd  worn  only  once  that  summer,  and  I  took  it 
over  my  arm  and  went  down  in  the  kitchen. 


32    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

When  I  was  all  ready  I  went  through  the  door 
that  opened  stillest,  and  outdoors. 

Out  there  was  as  different  as  if  it  didn't  be- 
long. You  thought  of  the  fresh  smell  of  it 
before  you  thought  of  anything  else.  Nothing 
about  it  had  been  used.  And  the  thin  sunshine 
come  right  at  you,  slanting.  Over  the  porch 
the  morning-glories  were  all  out.  I  pulled  off 
a  whole  great  vine  of  'em  and  put  it  around  my 
neck.  Then  I  ran.  I  wasn't  going  to  go  any- 
wheres or  do  anything.  But  I  was  clean  and 
dressed  up,  and  outdoors  was  just  as  good  as 
anybody  else  has. 

I  went  down  the  road  toward  the  sun.  It 
seemed  as  if  I  must  be  going  toward  something 
else,  better  than  all  I  knew.  I  felt  as  if  I  was 
a  person,  living  like  persons  live.  I  wondered 
why  I  hadn't  done  this  every  morning.  I 
wondered  why  everybody  didn't  do  it.  I  kind 
of  wanted  to  be  doing  it  together  with  some- 
body. Everybody  I  knew  done  things  so  sepa- 
rate.    I  wisht  everybody  was  with  me. 

I  wanted  to  sing.  So  I  did — the  first  thing 
that  come  into  my  head.     I  put  my  head  back, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     33 

so's  I  ccmld  see  the  two  rows  of  the  trees  ahead, 
almost  meeting,  and  the  thick  blue  between 
them.  And  then  I  sung  the  first  thing  that 
come  into  my  head,  and  I  sung  it  to  the  top  of 
my  voice : 

"O  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem, 

When  shall  I  come  to  Thee  ? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end  ? 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 
O  happy  harbor  of  God's  saints  I 

O  sweet  and  pleasant  soil ! 
In  thee  no  sorrow  can  be  found, 

Nor  grief  nor  care  nor  toil/' 

And  when  I  got  to  the  end  of  the  verse  some- 
body said : 

*T  don't  believe  you  can  possibly  mind  if  I 
thank  you  for  that  ?" 

The  man  must  have  been  sitting  by  the  road, 
because  he  was  right  there  beside  me,  standing 
still,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

I  says,  "I  can't  sing.  I  just  done  that  for 
fun." 

"That's  what  was  so  delightful,"  he  says. 
And  then  he  says,  "Are  you  going  to  the  vil- 
lage ?    May  I  walk  along  with  you  ?" 


34    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"No,  I  ain't  going  to  town,"  I  says.  "I 
ain't  going  anywheres  much.  But  you  can 
walk  where  you  want  to.     The  road's  free.'* 

He  walked  side  of  me.  I  looked  at  him. 
He  was  good-looking.  He  was  so  clean — that 
was  the  first  thing  I  noticed  about  him.  Clean, 
and  sort  of  brown  and  pink,  with  nothing  more 
on  his  face  than  was  on  mine,  and  yet  he  looked 
manly.  He  was  big.  He  had  a  wide  way 
with  his  shoulders,  and  he  held  his  head  nice. 
I  liked  to  look  at  him,  so  I  did  look. 

And  all  at  once  I  says  to  myself,  What  did 
I  care  so  I  got  some  fun  out  of  it.  Other  girls 
was  always  doing  this.  Lena  Curtsy  would 
have  talked  with  him  in  a  minute.  Maybe  I 
could  get  him  to  ask  me  to  go  to  a  show.  I 
couldn't  go,  but  I  thought  I'd  like  to  make  him 
ask  me. 

"Was  you  lonesome?"  I  ask',  looking  at  him. 

He  didn't  say  anything.  He  just  looked  at 
me,  smiling  a  little.  I  thought  I'd  better  say  a 
little  more.  I  wanted  him  to  know  I  wasn't  a 
stick,  but  that  I  was  in  for  fun,  like  a  city  girl. 

^'You  don't  look  like  a  chap  that'd  be  lone- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    35 

some  very  long,"  I  says.  "Not  if  you  can  get 
acquainted  this  easy." 

He  kept  looking  at  me,  and  smiling  a  little. 

"Tell  me,"  he  says,  "do  you  live  about  here?" 

"Me?  Right  here.  I'm  the  original  Maud 
Muller,"  I  says. 

"And  what  do  you  do  besides  rake  hay?"  he 
says. 

I  couldn't  think  what  else  Maud  Muller  done. 
I  hadn't  read  it  since  Fifth  Reader.  So  I 
says: 

"Well,  she  don't  often  get  a  chance  to  talk 
with  traveling  gentlemen." 

"That's  good,"  he  says,  "but — I  wouldn't 
have  thought  it." 

I  see  he  meant  because  I  done  it  so  easy  and 
ready,  so  I  give  him  as  good  as  he  sent. 

"Wouldn't  your  I  says.  "Well,  I  s'pose 
you  get  a  chance  to  flirt  with  strange  girls 
every  town  you  strike." 

He  looked  at  me  again,  not  smiling  now, 
but  just  awfully  interested.  I  see  I  was  inter- 
esting him  down  to  the  ground.  Lena  Curtsy 
couldn't  have  done  it  better. 


36    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"Flirt,"  he  says  over.  "What  do  you  mean 
by 'flirt'?" 

I  laughed  at  him.  "You're  a  pretty  one  to 
ask  that,"  I  says,  "with  them  eyes." 

"Oh,"  he  says  serious,  "then  you  like  my 
eyes  ?'* 

"I  never  said  so,"  I  gave  him.  "Do  you 
like  mine?'* 

"Let  me  look  at  them,"  he  said. 

We  stopped  in  the  road,  and  I  looked  him 
square  in  the  eye.  I  can  look  anybody  in  the 
eye.  I  looked  at  him  straight,  till  he  laughed 
and  moved  on.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking 
about  something.' 

"I  think  I  like  you  best  when  you  sing,"  he 
said.    "Won't  you  sing  something  else  ?" 

"Sure,"  I  says,  and  wheeled  around  in  the 
road,  and  kind  of  skipped  backward.  And  I 
sung: 

"Oh,  oh,  oh,  oh !     Pull  down  the  blinds ! 
When  they  hear  the  organ  play-ing 
They  won't  know  what  we  are  say-ing. 
Pull  down  the  blinds !" 

Fd  heard  it  to  the  motion-picture  show  the 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    37 

week  before.  I  was  thankful  he  could  see  I 
was  up  on  the  nice  late  tunes. 

"I  wonder,"  says  the  man,  "if  you  can  tell 
me  something.  I  wonder  if  you  can  tell  me 
what  made  you  pick  out  this  song  to  sing  to 
me,  and  what  made  you  sing  that  other  song 
when  you  were  alone  ?" 

All  at  once  the  morning  come  back.  Ever 
since  I  met  him  I'd  forgot  the  morning  and  the 
sun,  and  the  way  I'd  felt  when  I  started  out 
alone.  I'd  just  been  thinking  about  myself, 
and  about  how  I  could  make  him  think  I  was 
cute  and  up-to-date.  Now  it  was  just  as  if  the 
country  road  opened  up  again,  and  there  I  was 
on  it,  opposite  the  Dew  Drop  Inn,  just  being 
me.     I  looked  up  at  him. 

"Honest,"  I  says,  "I  don't  know.  I  guess 
it  was  because  I  wanted  you  to  think  I  was 
fun." 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  minute,  straight  and 
deep. 

"By  Jove !"  he  says,  and  I  didn't  know  what 
ailed  him.  "Have  you  had  breakfast  ?"  he  ask', 
short. 


38    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"No,"  I  says. 

"You  come  in  here  with  me  and  get  some," 
he  says,  Hke  an  order. 

He  led  the  way  into  the  yard  of  the  Dew 
Drop  Inn.  There's  a  grape  arbor  there,  and 
some  bare  hard  dirt,  and  two  or  three  tables. 
Nobody  was  there,  only  the  boy,  sweeping  the 
dirt  with  a  broom.  We  sat  down  at  the  table 
in  the  arbor.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  there.  A 
house  wren  was  singing  his  head  off  some- 
where near.  A  woman  come  out  and  sloshed 
water  on  the  stone  at  the  back  door  and  begun 
scrubbing.    A  clock  in  the  bar  struck  six. 

Joe  Burkey,  that  keeps  the  Inn,  come  out 
and  nodded  to  me. 

"Joe,"  I  says,  "did  Keddie  Bingy  come  back 
here?" 

Joe  wiped  his  hands  on  the  cloth  on  his  arm, 
and  then  brushed  his  mustache  with  it,  and 
then  wiped  off  the  table  with  it. 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  about  K.  Bingy,"  says 
Joe.  "I  t'run  him  out  o'  my  place  last  night, 
neck  and  crop,  for  bein'  drunk  and  disorderly. 
I  ain't  seen  him  since. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    39 

I  looked  up  at  Joe's  little  eyes.  They  looked 
like  the  eyes  of  the  wolf  in  the  picture  in  our 
dining-room.  Joe's  got  a  fat  chin,  and  a  fat 
smile,  but  his  eyes  don't  match  them. 

"You  coward  and  you  brute,"  I  says  to  him, 
"where  did  Keddie  Bingy  get  drunk  and  dis- 
orderly?" 

Joe  begun  to  sputter  and  to  step  around  in 
new  places.  The  man  I  was  with  brought  his 
hand  down  on  the  table. 

"Never  mind  that,"  he  says,  "what  you've 
to  do  is  bring  some  breakfast.  What  will  you 
have  for  your  breakfast,  mademoiselle?"  he 
says  to  me. 

"Why,"  I  says,  "some  salt  pork  and  some 
baking  powder  biscuit  for  me,  and  some  fried 
potatoes  and  a  piece  of  some  kind  of  pi^. 
What  kind  have  you  got  ?" 

"Apple  and  raisin,"  says  Joe,  sulky.  But 
the  man  I  was  with  he  says : 

"Suppose  you  let  me  order  our  breakfast. 
Will  you?" 

"Suit  yourself,  I'm  sure,"  says  I.  "I  ain't 
used  to  the  best." 


40    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

The  man  thought  a  minute. 

"Back  there  a  Httle  way,"  he  says,  "I  crossed 
something  that  looked  like  a  trout  stream.  Is 
it  a  trout  stream  ?" 

"Sure,"  says  Joe  and  I  together. 

"How  long,"  says  the  man,  "would  it  take 
that  boy  there  to  bring  in  a  small  catch?" 

"My!"  I  says,  "he  can  do  that  quicker'n  a 
cat  can  lick  his  eye.     Can't  he,  Joe?" 

"Very  well,"  says  the  man.  "We  will  have 
brook  trout  for  breakfast.  Make  a  lemon 
butter  for  them,  please,  and  use  good  butter. 
With  that  bring  us  some  toast,  very  thin,  very 
brown  and  very  hot,  with  more  good  butter. 
Have  you  some  orange  marmalade  ?" 

"Sure,"  says  Joe,  "but  it  costs  thirty  cents  a 
jar;  I  open  the  whole — " 

"Some  orange  marmalade,"  says  the  man. 
"And  coffee — I  wonder  what  that  good  woman 
there  would  say  to  letting  me  make  the  coffee  ?" 

"Her?  She'll  do  whatever  I  tell  her,"  says 
Joe.  "But  we  charge  extra  when  guests  got  to 
make  their  own  coffee." 

"And  now,"  says  the  man,  getting  through 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    41 

with  that,  "what  can  you  bring  us  while  we 
wait?     Some  peaches?'* 

"The  orchard,"  says  Joe,  "is  rotten  wid 
peaches." 

"Good,"  says  the  man.  "Now  we  under- 
stand each  other.  If  mademoiselle  will  excuse 
me,  we  will  set  the  coffee  on  its  way." 

I  set  and  waited,  thinking  how  funny  it  was 
for  a  man  to  make  the  coffee.  All  Pa  ever 
done  in  his  life  to  help  about  the  cooking  was 
to  clean  the  fish. 

I  went  and  played  with  a  kitten,  so's  not  to 
have  to  talk  to  Joe.  I  didn't  know  what  I 
might  say  to  him.  When  I  come  back  the  table 
was  laid  with  a  nice  clean  cloth  and  napkins 
that  were  ironed  good  and  dishes  with  little 
flowers  on.  When  the  woman  come  out  to 
the  well,  I  ask'  her  if  I  could  pick  some  phlox 
for  the  table.  She  laughed  and  said  yes,  if  I 
wanted  to.  So  I  got  some,  all  pink.  I  was 
just  bringing  it  when  the  man  come  back. 

"Stand  there,  just  for  a  minute,"  he  says. 

I  done  like  he  told  me,  by  the  door  of  the 
arbor.     I  thought  he  was  going  to  say  some- 


42    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

thing  nice,  and  I  hoped  I'd  think  of  something 
smart  and  sassy  to  say  back  to  him.  But  all 
he  says  was  just : 

"Thank  you.  Now,  come  and  sit  down, 
please." 

We  fixed  the  flowers.  Then  Joe  brought  a 
basket  of  beautiful  peaches,  and  we  took  what 
we  wanted.  The  man  took  one,  and  sat  touch- 
ing it  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  and  he  looked 
over  at  me  with  a  nice  smile. 

"And  now,  my  child,"  he  says,  "tell  me  your 
name." 

I  always  hate  to  tell  folks  my  name.  In 
the  village  they've  always  made  fun  of  it. 

"What  do  you  want  to  bother  with  that 
for?"  I  says.  "Ain't  I  good  enough  without  a 
tag?" 

He  spoke  almost  sharp.  "I  want  you  to  tell 
me  your  name,"  he  says. 

So  I  told  him.     "Cosma  Wakely,"  I  says. 

He    looked    funny.      "Really?"    he    says. 

"But  everybody  calls  me  'Cossy,'  "  I  says 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    43 

quick.  "I  know  what  a  funny  name  it  is.  My 
grandmother  named  me.     She  was  queer." 

"CossyT  he  says  over.  "Why,  Cosma  is 
perfect." 

"You're  kiddin*  me,"  I  says.  "Don't  you 
think  I  don't  know  it." 

He  didn't  say  he  wasn't. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  tell  me  your  name?"  I 
says.  "Not  that  I  s'pose  you'll  tell  me  the 
right  one.     They  never  do." 

"My  name,"  he  says,  "is  John  Ember." 

"On  the  square?"  Tasked  him. 

"Yes,"  he  says.  He  was  a  funny  man.  He 
didn't  have  a  bit  of  come-back.  He  took  you 
just  plain.  He  reminded  me  of  the  way  I  acted 
with  Luke.  But  usually  I  could  jolly  like  the 
dickens. 

"You  travel,  I  guess,"  I  says.  "What  do 
you  travel  for?" 

He  laughed.  "If  I  understand  you,"  he  said, 
"you  are  asking  me  what  my  line  is?" 

I  nodded.  I'd  just  put  the  pit  in  my  mouth, 
so  I  couldn't  guess  something  sassy,  like  pickles. 


44    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"I  have  no  line,"  he  says.     "It's  an  area." 

"Huh?"  I  says — on  account  of  the  pit. 

"I  travel,"  says  he,  "for  the  human  race. 
But  they  don't  know  it." 

"Sure,"  I  says,  when  I  had  it  swallowed, 
"you  got  to  sell  to  everybody,  I  know  that. 
But  what  do  you  sell  'em  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  sell  it,"  he  says.  "They  won't  buy 
it.  I  shall  always  be  a  philanthropist.  The 
commodity,"  says  he,  "is  books." 

"Oh!"  I  says.  "A  book  agent!  I'd  have 
taken  you  for  a  regular  salesman." 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  sell  'em,"  he  says.  "No- 
body will  buy.    I  just  write  'em." 

I  put  down  my  other  peach  and  looked  at 
him. 

"An  author?"  I  says.     "You?" 

"Thank  you,"  says  he,  "for  believing  me. 
Nobody  else  will.  Now  don't  let's  talk  about 
that.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  something  about 
yourself?" 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "I've  got  a  book  all  made  out 
of  wrapping  paper.     It  ain't  wrote  yet,  it's  in 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    45 

the  bottom  drawer.  But  I'm  going  to  write 
one." 

"Good !"  he  says.     "Tell  me  about  that,  too." 

I  don't  know  what  made  me,  except  the  sur- 
prise of  finding  that  he  was  what  he  was,  in- 
stead of  a  traveling  man.  But  the  first  thing 
I  knew  I  was  telling  him  about  me;  how  I'd 
stopped  school  when  I  was  fourteen,  and  had 
worked  out  for  a  little  while  in  town ;  and  then 
when  the  boys  got  the  job  in  the  blast  furnace, 
I  came  home  to  help  Ma.  I  told  him  how  the 
only  place  I'd  ever  been,  besides  the  village, 
was  to  the  city,  twict.  Only  two  things  I  didn't 
tell  him  at  first — about  what  home  was  like, 
and  about  Luke.  But  he  got  them  both  out  of 
me.  Because  I  wound  up  what  I  was  telling 
him  with  something  I  thought  was  the  thing 
to  say.     Lena  Curtsy  always  said  it. 

"I've  just  been  living  at  home  for  four  years 
now,"  I  said.  "I  s'pose  it's  the  place  for  a 
girl/' 

I  remember  how  calm  and  slow  he  was  when 
he  answered. 

"Why  no,"  he  says.     "Your  home  is  about 


46    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

the  last  place  in  the  world  a  girl  of  your  age 
ought  to  be." 

"What  do  you  know  about  my  home?"  I 
asked  him  quick. 

"I  don't  mean  your  home,"  he  says.  "I 
mean  any  home,  if  it's  your  parents'  home.  If 
you  can't  be  in  school,  why  aren't  you  out  by 
this  time  doing  some  useful  work  of  your 
own  ?" 

"Work,"  I  says.  "I  do  work.  1  work  like 
a  dog." 

"I  don't  mean  doing  your  family's  work," 
he  said.  "I  mean  doing  your  own  work.  Of 
course  you're  not  going  to  tell  me  you're 
happy  ?" 

"No,"  I  says,  "I  ain't  happy.  I  hate  my 
work.  I  hate  the  kind  of  a  home  I  live  in. 
It's  Bedlam,  the  whole  time.  I'm  going  to  get 
married  to  get  out  of  it." 

"So  you  are  going  to  be  married,"  he  says. 
"What's  the  man  like — do  you  mind  telling 
me  that?" 

I  told  him  about  Luke,  just  the  way  he  is. 
While  I  talked  he  was  eating  his  peaches.    I'd 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    47 

been  through  with  mine  quite  a  while  now,  so 
I  noticed  him  eat  his.  He  done  it  kind  of 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  I  Hked  to  watch 
him.  He  sort  of  broke  the  peach.  The  juice 
didn't  run  down.  I  remembered  how  I  must 
have  et  mine,  and  I  feh  ashamed. 

Before  I  was  all  through  about  Luke,  Joe 
come  in  with  the  trout,  and  some  thin,  crispy- 
potatoes  on  the  platter,  and  the  toast  and  the 
marmalade ;  and  Mr.  Ember  went  to  see  about 
the  coffee.  He  brought  it  out  himself,  and 
poured  it  himself — and  it  smelled  like  some- 
thing I*d  never  smelled  before.  And  now, 
when  he  begim  to  eat,  I  watched  him.  I  broke 
my  toast,  like  he  done.  I  used  my  fork  on  the 
trout,  like  him,  and  I  noticed  he  took  his  spoon 
out  of  his  cup,  and  I  done  that,  too,  though  I'd 
got  so  I  could  drink  from  a  cup  without  a 
handle  and  hold  the  spoon  with  my  finger,  like 
the  boys  done.  I  kept  tasting  the  coffee,  too, 
instead  of  drinking  it  off  at  once,  even  when 
it  was  hot,  like  I'd  learned  the  trick  of.  I 
didn't  know  but  his  way  just  happened  to  be 
his  way,  but  I  wanted  to  make  sure.     Anyway, 


48    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  never  smack  my  lips,  and  Luke  and  the  boys 
do  that. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "while  we  enjoy  this  very 
excellent  breakfast,  will  you  do  me  the  honor 
to  let  me  tell  you  a  little  something  about  me?" 

I  don't  see  what  honor  that  would  be,  and  I 
said  so.    And  then  he  told  me  things. 

Fm  sorry  that  I  can't  put  them  down.  It 
was  wonderful.  It  was  just  like  a  story  the 
teacher  tells  you  when  you're  little  and  not  too 
old  for  stories.  It  turned  out  he'd  been  to 
Europe  and  to  Asia.  He'd  done  things  that  I 
never  knew  there  was  such  things.  But  he 
didn't  talk  about  him,  he  just  talked  about  the 
things  and  the  places.  I  forgot  to  eat.  It 
seemed  so  funny  that  I,  Cossy  Wakely,  should 
be  listening  to  somebody  that  had  done  them 
things.     He  said  something  about  a  volcano. 

"A  volcano !"  I  says.  "Do  they  have  them 
nowf  I  thought  that  was  only  when  the  geog- 
raphy was." 

"But  the  geography  is,  you  know,"  he  says. 
"It  is  now." 

"Did  that  big  flat  book  all  mean  now?"  I 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    49 

says.  "I  thought  it  meant  long  ago.  I 
had  a  picture  of  the  Ark  and  the  flood  and  the 
Temple,  and  when  the  stars  fell — " 

"Oh,  the  fools!"  he  says  to  himself;  but  I 
didn't  know  who  he  meant,  and  I  was  pretty 
sure  he  must  mean  me. 

All  the  while  we  were  having  breakfast,  he 
talked  with  me.  When  it  was  over,  and  he'd 
paid  the  bill — I  tried  my  best  to  see  how  much 
it  was,  so  as  to  tell  Lena  Curtsy,  but  I  couldn't 
— he  turned  around  to  me  and  he  says : 

"The  grass  is  not  wet  this  morning.  It's 
high  summer.  Will  you  walk  with  me  up  to 
the  top  of  that  hill  over  there  in  the  field?  I 
want  to  show  you  the  whole  world." 

"Sure,"  I  says.  "But  you  can't  see  much 
past  Twiney's  pasture  from  that  little  runt  of 
a  hill." 

We  climbed  the  fence.  He  put  his  hand  on 
a  post  and  vaulted  the  wire  as  good  as  the  boys 
could  have  done.  When  he  turned  to  help  me, 
I  was  just  doing  the  same  thing.  Then  it  come 
over  me  that  maybe  an  author  wouldn't  think 
that  was  ladylike. 


50    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"I  always  do  them  that  way,"  I  says,  kind 
of  to  explain. 

*Ts  there  any  other  way?"  says  he. 

"No !"  says  I,  and  we  both  laughed.  It  was 
nice  to  laugh  with  him,  and  it  was  the  first 
time  we'd  done  it  together. 

The  field  was  soft  and  shiny.  There  was 
pretty  cobwebs.  Everything  looked  new  and 
:g  lossy. 

"Great  guns!"  I  says.  "Ain't  it  nice  out 
here?" 

"That's  exactly  what  I've  been  thinking," 
says  he. 

We  went  along  still  for  a  little  ways.  It 
come  to  me  that  maybe,  if  I  could  only  say 
some  of  the  things  that  moved  around  on  the 
outside  of  my  head,  he  might  like  them.  But 
I  couldn't  get  them  together  enough. 

"It  makes  you  want  to  think  nice  thoughts," 
I  says,  by  and  by. 

"Doesn't  it  ?"  he  says,  with  his  quick,  straight 
look.     "And  when  it  does,  then  you  do." 

"I  don't  know  enough,"  I  says.  "I  wisht  I 
did." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    51 

I'll  never,  never  forget  when  we  come  to  the 
top  of  the  little  hill.  He  stood  there  with 
nothing  but  the  sky,  blue  as  fury,  behind  him. 

"Now  look,"  he  says.  "There's  New  York, 
over  there." 

"You  can't  see  New  York  from  here!"  I 
"says.  "Not  with  no  specs  that  was  ever  in- 
vented." 

He  vv^ent  right  on.  "Down  there,"  he  says, 
"are  St.  Louis  and  Cincinnati  and  New  Or- 
leans. Across  there  is  Chicago.  And  away  on 
there  are  two  days  of  desert — two  days,  by  ex- 
press train! — and  then  mountains  and  a  green 
coast,  and  San  Francisco  and  the  Pacific.  And 
then  all  the  things  we  talked  about  this  morn- 
ing :  Japan  and  India  and  the  Alps  and  London 
and  Rome  and  the  Nile." 

I  wondered  what  on  earth  he  was  driving  at. 

"Which  do  you  want  to  do,"  says  he,  "go 
there,  and  try  to  find  these  places  ?  You  won't 
find  them,  you  know.  But  at  least,  you'll 
know  they're  in  the  world.  Or  live  down  there 
in  a  little  farm-house  like  that  one  and  slave  for 
Luke?" 


52    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"But  I  can't  even  try  to  find  them  places," 
I  says.     "How  could  I?" 

"Maybe  not,"  he  says.  "Maybe  not.  I  don't 
say  you  could.  All  I  mean  is  this.  Why  not 
think  of  your  life  as  if  you  have  really  been 
bom,  and  not  as  if  you  were  waiting  to  be 
born?" 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "don't  you  s'pose  I've  thought 
of  that?    But  I  can't  get  away." 

"Yes,  you  can,"  he  says,  looking  at  me,  ear- 
nest. "Yes,  you  can.  If  you  just  say  the 
word." 

I  was  as  tall  as  he  was,  and  I  looked  right 
at  him,  with  all  the  strength  I  had. 

"Do  you  think,"  I  says,  "that  because  I'm 
from  the  country  I  ain't  on  to  all  such  talk  as 
that?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  what  them 
kind  of  hold-outs  means  ?  We  ain't  such  fools 
as  you  think  we  are,  not  since  Hattie  Duffy 
thought  she  was  going  to  Paris,  and  ended  in 
the  bottom  of  a  pond.  They's  only  one  way 
any  of  us  ever  gets  to  see  any  of  them  things, 
and  don't  you  think  we're  fooled  unless  we 
want  to  be.     No,  sir.     We  ain't  that  fresh." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     53 

He  scared  me  the  way  he  whirled  round  at 
me. 

"You  miserable  little  creature!"  he  said. 
"What  are  you  talking  about?'* 

"Well,"  I  says,  "don't  you  ever  think  I—" 

Then  he  done  a  funny  thing.  He  drew  a 
deep  breath,  and  took  his  hat  off  and  looked 
up  at  the  sky  and  off  over  the  fields. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "thank  God  this  is  the 
way  you  are  beginning  to  take  it!  When  a 
country  girl  can  protect  herself  like  that,  it  is 
growing  safe  for  her  to  be  bom.  Listen  to 
me,  child,"  he  says. 

He  had  me  puzzled  for  fair  by  then.  I  just 
listened. 

"Just  now,"  he  says,  "I  called  you  a  miser- 
able little  creature.  That  was  because  you  quite 
naturally  mistook  me  for  one  of  the  wretched 
hunters  whom  women  have  been  trying  to 
evade  since  the  beginning.  Well,  I  was  wrong 
to  call  you  that.  Instead,  I  applaud  your  mag- 
nificent ability  to  take  care  of  yourself.  I  ap- 
plaud even  more  in  the  incident — but  I  won't 
bother  you  with  that." 


54    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  kept  trying  to  see  what  he  meant. 

"Now  you  must,"  he  said,  "try  to  under- 
stand me.  What  I  meant  to  say  to  you  was 
that  with  the  whole  world  to  choose  from,  you 
are,  in  my  opinion,  quite  wrong  to  settle  down 
here  to  your  farm  and  your  Luke  and  the 
drudgery  you  say  you  loathe,  without  ever  giv- 
ing yourself  a  chance  to  choose  at  all.  Perhaps 
you  would  come  back  and  settle  here  because 
you  wanted  to.  ...  I  hope  you  would  do 
that,  under  somewhat  different  conditions. 
But  don't  settle  here  because  you're  trapped 
and  can't  get  out.'* 

"But  I  can't  get  out — "  I  was  beginning,  but 
he  went  on : 

"I  know  perfectly  well  that  a  great  part  of 
the  world  would  think  that  I  ought  not  to  be 
talking  to  you  like  that.  They  would  say  that 
you  are  'safe'  here.  That  you  and  Luke  would 
have  a  quiet,  contented  life.  But  I  care  noth- 
ing at  all  for  such  safety.  I  think  that  unrea- 
sonable contentment  leads  to  various  kinds  of 
damnation.  If  you  were  an  ordinary  girl 
I  should  not  be  talking  to  you  like  this.     I 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    55 

should  not  have  the  courage — yet;  not  while 
life  treats  women  as  it  treats  them  now.  But 
in  spite  of  your  vulgarity,  you  are  a  remark- 
able woman." 

"In  spite  of  whatf"  I  says. 

*T  mean  it,"  he  says,  "and  you  must  let  me 
tell  you,  because  you  seem  to  be,  in  all  but  one 
thing,  a  fine  straightforward  creature.  But  in 
the  way  you  treat  men,  you  are  vulgar,  you 
know.  Not  hopelessly,  just  deplorably.  Now 
tell  me  the  truth.  Why  did  you  pretend  to 
flirt  with  me?  For  that  isn't  your  natural 
manner.  You  put  it  on.  Why  did  you  do 
that?" 

I  could  tell  him  that  well  enough. 

"Why,"  I  says,  "I  guess  it  was  the  same  as 
the  singing.  I  wanted  you  to  know  I  wasn't 
a  stick.  I  wanted  you  to  think  I  was  lively 
and  fun.  It's  the  way  the  girls  do.  I  can't 
do  it  as  good  as  they  do,  I  know  that." 

"Promise  me,"  he  says,  "that  if  ever  you  do 
get  out,  you'll  be  the  fine  and  straightforward 
one — not  the  other  one." 

"I  shan't  get  out,"  I  says.    "I  can't  get  out." 


56    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"  T  can't  get  out/  "  he  says  over.  "  *I  can't 
get  out.'  It's  a  great  mistake.  If  you  feel  it 
in  you  to  get  out,  then  you'll  get  out.  That's 
the  answer." 

*T  do,"  I  says.  *T  always  have.  I  wake  up 
in  the  mornings     .     .     ." 

I'll  never  know  what  it  was  that  come  over 
me.  But  all  of  a  sudden,  the  me  that  laid 
awake  nights  and  thought,  and  the  me  that  had 
come  out  in  the  sun  that  morning  was  the  only 
me  I  had,  and  it  could  talk. 

"Oh,'*  I  says,  "don't  you  think  I'm  the  way 
I  seemed  back  there  on  the  road.  I'm  differ- 
ent; but  I'm  the  only  one  that  knows  that. 
I  like  nice  things.  I'd  like  to  act  nice.  I'd 
like  to  be  the  way  I  could  be.  But  there 
ain't  enough  of  me  to  be  that  way.  And  I 
don't  know  what  to  do." 

He  took  both  my  hands. 

"And  I  don't  know  what  you're  to  do,"  he 
said.  "That  is  the  part  you  must  find  for  your- 
self. It's  like  dying — yet  a  while,  till  they  get 
us  going." 

We  stood  still  for  a  minute.     And  then  I 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    57 

saw  what  I  hadn't  seen  before — what  a  grand 
face  he  had.  He  wasn't  Hke  the  handsome 
men  on  calendars  or  on  cigar  boxes,  or  on  the 
signs.  He  was  like  somebody  else  I  hadn't 
ever  seen  before.  His  face  wasn't  young  at 
all,  but  it  looked  glad,  and  that  made  it  seem 
young. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  ever  go  way,"  I  says. 

"I  ought  to  be  miles  from  here  at  this  mo- 
ment," he  says.  "Now  see  here  ...  I 
want  to  give  you  these." 

He  took  two  cards  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
wrote  on  them. 

"This  one  is  mine,"  he  says.  "H  you  do 
come  to  the  city,  you  are  surely  to  let  me  know 
that  you  are  there.  And  if  you  take  this  other 
card  to  this  address  here,  this  gentleman  may 
be  able  to  give  you  work.  Now  good-by.  I'm 
going  to  cut  through  the  meadow,  and  I  sup- 
pose you'll  be  going  back." 

He  put  out  his  hand. 

"Don't  go,"  I  says.  "Don't  go.  I  shan't 
ever  find  anybody  to  talk  to  again." 

"That's  part  of  your  job,  you  know,'*  he 


58    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

says.  "Remember  you  have  a  job.  Good-by, 
child.'* 

He  went  off  down  the  slope.  At  the  foot 
of  it  he  stopped. 

"Cosma!"  he  shouts,  "don't  ever  let  them 
call  you  anything  else,  you  know !" 

"I  won't,"  I  says.  "Honest,  I  won't,  Mr. 
Ember." 

I  watched  him  just  as  far  as  I  could  see  him. 
On  the  road  he  turned  and  waved  his  hand. 
When  he  was  out  of  sight  I  started  to  go  back 
home.  But  when  I  see  things  again,  I'll  never 
forget  the  lonesomeness.  Things  was  like  a 
sucked-out  sack.  I  laid  down  in  the  grass — 
I  haven't  cried  since  the  last  time  Pa  whipped 
me,  six  years  ago,  but  I  thought  I  was  going 
to  cry  now.  Then  I  happened  to  think  that 
was  the  way  I'd  have  done  before  I  met  him; 
but  it  wasn't  the  way  I  must  do  now.  In- 
stead, I  got  up  on  to  my  feet  and  I  started  for 
home  on  the  run.  It  was  like  something  was 
starting  somewheres,  and  I  had  to  hurry. 


CHAPTER   III 

MOTHER  was  scrubbing  the  well-house. 
"Cossy  Wakely,"  she  says,  "where 
you  been?" 

"Walking,"  I  says. 

"Walking!"  says  she;  "with  all  I  got  to  do. 
I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
My  land,  what  you  got  on  your  best  clothes 
for?" 

"Mother,"  I  says,  "you  call  me  'Cosma'  after 
this,  will  you?" 

She  stared  at  me.  "Such  airs,"  she  says. 
"And  callin*  me  'Mother.'  Who  you  been 
with?    What  you  rigged  out  like  that  for?" 

"I  didn't  dress  up  for  anybody,"  I  says, 
"only  because  I  wanted  to." 

"Such  a  young  one  as  you've  turned  out," 
says  she.  "What's  to  become  of  you  I  don't 
know.  Wait  till  your  Pa  comes  in — I'll  tell 
him." 

"Mother,"  I  says,  "I'm  twenty  years  old. 
59 


60    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

You  call  me  'Cosma/  and  let  me  call  you 
'Mother/  And  don't  feel  you  have  to  scold  me 
all  the  time." 

"I'll  quit  scolding  you  fast  enough,"  she 
says,  "when  you  quit  deserving  it.  Go  and  get 
out  of  them  togs,  the  dishes  are  waiting  for 
you." 

I  went  in  the  house.  Mis'  Bingy  was  not 
there,  up-stairs  or  down.  I  went  back  to  the 
door  and  asked  about  her. 

"Why,  she's  gone  home,"  says  Mother. 
"You  didn't  s'pose  she  was  going  to  live  here, 
did  you?" 

"Home?"  I  says.    "Where  that  man  is?" 

"We  can't  all  pick  out  our  homes,"  she  says, 
scrubbing  the  boards. 

Pa  heard  her.  He  was  just  coming  in  from 
the  barn  with  the  swill  buckets  to  fill. 

"That's  you,"  he  says,  "finding  fault  with 
the  hands  that  feeds  you.  Where'd  you  be, 
I'd  like  to  know,  if  it  wasn't  for  this  home  and 
me?    In  the  poorhouse." 

Mother  straightened  up  on  her  knees  by  the 
well. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    61 

"Mean  to  say  I  don't  pay  my  keep?"  she 
says. 

For  a  minute  she  seemed  young  and  some- 
body, like  when  she  was  asleep. 

"Not  when  you  dish  up  such  pickings  as  you 
done  this  morning,"  says  Pa. 

She  screamed  out  something  at  him,  and  I 
ran  across  the  yard  toward  Mis'  Bingy's.  They 
were  going  on  so  hard  they  forgot  about  me. 

The  grove  was  still.  I  wished  he  could  have 
seen  it.  As  soon  as  I  got  in  it,  I  forgot  about 
home,  and  the  time  before  come  back  on  me, 
like  some  of  me  singing.  That  was  it — some 
of  me  singing.  But  I  see  right  off  the  grove 
was  different.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  had  been 
in  it,  and  had  showed  me  things  about  it.  I 
begun  looking  out  at  it  the  way  I  thought  he'd 
be  looking  at  it.  There  seemed  to  be  more  of 
the  grove  than  I  thought  there  was.  Then  I 
thought  how  he'd  never  be  there  in  it,  and  how 
I'd  prob'ly  never  see  him  again,  and  something 
in  me  hurt,  and  I  didn't  want  to  go  on.  What 
was  the  use?  .  .  .  What  was  the  use?  .  .  . 
What  was  the  use?    .    .    . 


62    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Mis'  Bingy's  house  lay  all  still  in  the  sun. 
The  sunflowers  and  hollyhocks  by  the  back 
door  and  the  chickens  picking  around  looked 
all  peaceful  and  like  home.  I  thought  Mr. 
Bingy  must  be  sleeping  off  his  drunk,  and  her 
keeping  quiet  not  to  disturb  him. 

The  kitchen  door  was  standing  open  and  I 
stepped  up  on  the  porch.  And  then  I  heard 
a  terrible  cry,  from  right  there  in  the  room. 

"Go  back — back,  Cossy!"  Mis'  Bingy  said. 
"He'll  kill  you!" 

All  in  an  instant  I  took  it  in.  She  was  sit- 
ting crouched  on  the  bed,  shielding  the  baby 
with  a  pillow.  And  he  set  close  beside  the 
door,  sharpening  his  hatchet. 

He  jumped  up  when  he  see  me.  I  remember 
his  red  eyes  and  his  teeth,  and  his  thin  whiskers 
that  showed  his  chin  through.  Then  he  sprang 
forward,  right  toward  me  and  on  to  me,  with 
his  hatchet  in  his  hand. 

I  donno  how  I  done  it.  For  no  reason,  I 
guess,  only  that  I'm  big  and  strong  and  he 
was  little  and  pindling.  I  know  I  never  stopped 
to  think   or  decide  nothing.     I   dodged   his 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    63 

hatchet  and  I  jumped  at  him.  I  threw  my 
whole  strength  at  him,  with  my  hands  on  his 
face  and  his  throat.  He  went  down  hke  a  log, 
because  I  was  so  much  bigger  and  so  strong. 
But  that  wouldn't  have  saved  us,  only  that, 
as  he  fell,  he  hit  his  head  on  the  sharp  corner 
of  the  cook  stove.  He  rolled  over  on  his  back, 
and  the  hatchet  flew  out  on  the  zinc. 

"You  killed  him!"  Mis'  Bingy  says.  She 
sat  up,  but  she  didn't  go  to  him. 

"We  ain't  no  time  to  think  of  that,"  I  says. 
"Get  your  things  and  come." 

She  didn't  ask  anything.  She  took  the  baby 
and  run  right  and  got  a  bundle  of  things  she'd 
got  ready.  I  see  then  that  she  had  on  her  best 
black  dress,  and  the  baby  was  all  dressed  clean 
and  embroidered.  I  picked  up  the  hatchet,  and 
we  went  out  the  door,  and  shut  it  behind  us. 
She  never  looked  back,  even  when  we  got  to 
the  door ;  and  I  noticed  that,  because  it  wasn't 
like  Mis'  Bingy,  that's  soft  and  frightened. 

"I  don't  mind  what  he  done  to  me,"  she  said, 
"but  just  now  he  took  the  baby — and  touched 
her  hand — to  the  hot  griddle." 


64    A  DAUGHTEH  OF  THE  MORNING 

She  showed  me. 

"I  hope  he's  dead,"  I  said. 

"Where  shall  I  go?"  she  says.  "My  God, 
where  shall  I  go?" 

"Ain't  you  no  folks?"  I  asked  her. 

"Not  near  enough  so's  I've  got  the  fare," 
she  says.  "Anyhow,  I  don't  want  to  come  on 
to  them.'* 

We  was  in  the  grove  at  the  time.  I  donno 
as  it  would  have  come  to  me  so  quick  if  we 
hadn't  been  there. 

"Mis'  Bingy,"  I  says,  "let's  us  go  to  the  city 
together,  you  and  me.    And  find  a  job." 

I  thought  she'd  draw  back.  But  she  just 
stopped  still  in  the  path  and  looked  at  me  round 
the  baby's  head. 

"You  couldn't  do  that,  could  you?"  she  says. 

"Yes,"  I  says.  "I  didn't  know  it  before,  but 
I  know  it  now.    I  could  do  that." 

She  kep'  on  looking  at  me,  with  something 
coming  in  her  face. 

"You  couldn't  go  to-day,  could  you?"  she 
says. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    65 

I  hadn't  thought  of  to-day,  but  the  thing 
was  on  me  then. 

"Why  not  to-day  as  good  as  any  day?"  I 
says. 

"Your  Ma — "  she  says. 

"This  is  different,"  I  says.  "This  is  for  me 
to  do." 

We  come  to  the  edge  of  the  grove,  and 
across  the  open  lot  I  could  see  Mother.  She 
was  spreading  out  her  scrubbing  cloth  on  the 
grass  to  dry.  I  went  up  to  her,  and  I  wasn't 
scared  nor  I  didn't  dread  anything  because  I 
was  so  sure. 

"Mother,"  I  says,  "Mis'  Bingy  and  I  are  go- 
ing up  to  the  city  together  to  get  some  work. 
And  we're  goin'  to-day.  But  first  I've  got  to 
go  and  find  somebody.  I  donno  but  I've  killed 
Mr.  Bingy." 

I  don't  remember  all  the  things  she  said. 
All  of  a  sudden,  my  head  was  full  of  other 
things  that  stood  out  sharp,  and  I  couldn't  take 
in  what  was  going  on  all  around,  npt  with  what 
I  had  to  think  about.    Mis'  Bingy  sat  down  by 


66    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

the  well-house  and  went  to  nursing  the  baby, 
and  Mother  stood  up  before  her  asking  her 
things.  I  left  'em  so,  and  ran  down  the  road 
to  the  Inn.  That  was  the  nearest  place  I  could 
get  anybody. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  by 
that  time.  All  this  had  happened  to  me  before 
it  was  time  to  get  the  potatoes  ready  for  din- 
ner. I  remember  thinking  that  as  I  run.  There 
was  the  Inn — and  Joe  was  out  wiping  off  the 
tables  in  the  yard,  with  the  same  dirty  cloth, 
and  straightening  up  the  chairs. 

"Joe,"  I  says,  *T  ain't  sure,  but  I  think  Fve 
hurt  Mr.  Bingy  pretty  bad.  Is  there  somebody 
can  go  up  to  their  house  and  see?'* 

Joe  stared,  his  thick,  red,  open  lips  and  his 
red  tongue  looking  more  surprised  than  his  lit- 
tle wolf  eyes. 

*What?"hesays. 

When  I'd  made  him  know,  he  got  two  men 
from  the  field  and  they  run  up  the  road  to- 
ward Bingy's.  On  the  Inn  window-sill  was 
the  same  kitten  I'd  played  with  while  I  was 
waiting  for  the  coffee.    I  went  and  got  it  and 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    67 

sat  down  at  the  table  where  we'd  been.  It 
seemed  a  day  since  I  was  there.  I  seemed  like 
somebody  else.  For  the  first  time  I  wondered 
what  would  be  if  Keddie  Bingy  was  dead.  But 
it  wasn't  the  being  arrested  or  stood  up  in  the 
court  room  or  locked  in  jail  that  I  thought  of, 
and  it  wasn't  Keddie  at  all.  All  I  kept  think- 
ing was : 

"If  Keddie's  dead,  I  won't  never  see  him 
again." 

I  sat  there  going  over  that,  and  holding  the 
kitten.  It  was  a  nice  little  kitten  that  looked  up 
in  my  face  more  helpless  than  anything  but  a 
baby,  or  a  bird,  or  a  puppy.  I  felt  kind  of  like 
some  such  helpless  things.  The  world  wasn't 
like  what  I  thought  it  was.  More  things  hap- 
pened to  you  than  I  ever  knew  could  happen. 
I  always  thought  they  happened  just  to  other 
folks.  The  tables  and  the  bare,  swept  dirt 
didn't  look  as  if  anything  was  happening  any- 
wheres near  them,  and  yet  down  the  road 
maybe  was  a  dead  man  that  I'd  killed.  And  a 
mile  and  more  away  by  now  he  was,  and  a 
little  bit  ago  he'd  been  here,  and  the  me  that  set 


68    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

there  with  him  had  been  somebody  else.  And 
the  me  that  had  been  awake  before  daybreak 
that  morning  probably  wouldn't  ever  be  me  at 
all,  any  more.  Everything  was  different  for- 
ever. I  saw  something  on  the  ground,  down 
by  the  arbor.  It  was  the  pink  phlox  I  had 
picked.  They  threw  it  away  when  they  wanted 
to  wash  the  glass.  It  seemed  so  helpless,  laying 
there  without  any  water.  I  went  and  got  it 
and  put  it  on  my  dress. 

Pretty  soon  I  heard  them  coming  back,  talk- 
ing. Joe  and  one  of  the  men  come  in  sight, 
and  Joe  sung  out : 

"It's  all  right.  He's  groaning.  Ben's  gone 
for  a  doctor.    What  happened?" 

I  told  'em;  but  I  wanted  to  get  away. 

"Well,  shave  my  bones,"  Joe  says,  "if  you 
ain't  the  worst  I  ever  see.  Why  didn't  you 
leave  the  woman  knock  down  her  own  man?" 

"Why  didn't  you  leave  her  get  him  drunk?" 
I  says.  "If  I'd  have  killed  him,  it'd  been  you 
that  murdered  him,  Joe." 

"Now,  look  here,"  says  Joe,  "I'm  a-carry- 
ing  on  an  honest  business.    If  a  man  goes  for 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MOilNING    69 

to  make  a  iool  of  himself,  is  that  my  lookout, 
or  ain't  it?  Who  do  you  think  lets  me  keep 
this  business,  anyway?  It's  the  U.  S.  Govern- 
ment, that's  who  it  is.  You  better  be  careful 
what  you  sling  at  this  business." 

"Then  it's  the  Gover'ment  that's  a  big  fool, 
instead  of  you  and  Keddie,"  I  says,  and  started 
for  home.  I  remember  Joe  shouted  out  some- 
thing; but  all  I  was  thinking  was  that  the  day 
before  I'd  of  thought  it  was  wicked  to  say 
what  I'd  just  said,  and  now  I  didn't;  and  I 
wondered  why. 

There  wasn't  a  minute  to  lose  now,  because 
if  Keddie  was  groaning  he'd  be  up  and  out 
again  and  looking  for  both  of  us.  Mother  and 
Mis'  Bingy  and  the  baby  was  still  out  in  the 
yard  by  the  well-house,  and  Father  was  just 
starting  down  the  road  after  me. 

It's  funny,  but  what,  just  the  day  before, 
would  have  been  a  thing  so  big  I  wouldn't  have 
thought  of  doing  it,  chiefly  on  account  of  the 
row  it'd  make,  was  now  just  easy  and  natural. 
They  must  have  said  things,  I  remember  how 
loud  their  voices  were  and  how  I  wished  they 


70    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

wouldn't.  And  I  remember  them  saying  over 
and  over  the  same  thing : 

"You  don't  need  to  go.  You  don't  need 
to  go.  Ain't  you  always  had  a  roof  over  you 
and  enough  to  eat?  A  girl  had  ought  to  be 
thankful  for  a  good  home." 

But  I  went  and  got  my  things  ready  and  got 
myself  dressed.  I  wanted  to  tell  them  about 
the  feeling  I  had  that  I  had  to  go,  but  I  couldn't 
tell  about  that,  now  that  I  was  going,  any  more 
than  I  could  tell  when  I  thought  I  mustn't  go. 

I  did  say  something  to  Mother  when  she 
come  and  stood  in  the  bedroom  door  and  told 
me  I  was  an  ungrateful  girl. 

"Ungrateful  for  what?"  I  says. 

"For  me  bringing  you  up  and  working  my 
head  off  for  you,"  she  says,  "and  your  Pa  the 
same." 

"But,  Mother,"  I  says,  "that  was  your  job 
to  do.    And  me — I  ain't  found  my  job — yet." 

"Your  job  is  to  do  as  we  tell  you  to,"  says 
Mother.    "The  idea!" 

I  tried,  just  that  once,  to  make  her  see. 

"Mother,"  I  says,  "I'm  separate.    I'm  some- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    71 

body  else.  Fm  old  enough  to  get  a-hold  of 
some  life  like  you've  had,  and  some  work  I 
want  to  do.  And  I  can't  do  it  if  I  stay  here. 
I'm  separate — don't  you  see  that?" 

Then  it  come  over  me,  dim,  how  surprised 
she  must  feel,  after  all,  to  have  to  think  that, 
that  I  was  separate,  instead  of  her  and  hers. 
I  went  over  toward  her — I  wanted  to  tell  her 
so.    But  she  says: 

*T  don't  know  what  you're  coming  to.  And 
I'm  glad  I  don't.  When  I'm  dead  and  gone, 
you'll  think  of  this." 

And  then  I  couldn't  say  what  I'd  tried  to 
say.  But  I  thought  what  she  said  was  true, 
that  I  would  think  about  it  some  day,  and  be 
sorry.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Mis'  Bingy,  I 
s'pose  I'd  have  given  it  up,  even  then.  It's 
hard  to  make  a  thing  that's  been  so  for  a  long 
time  stop  being  so.  But  Mis'  Bingy  needed 
me,  and  I  was  sorry  for  her;  and  I  liked  the 
feeling. 

On  the  stairs  Mother  thought  of  something 
else. 

"What  about  Luke?"  she  says. 


n    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  hadn't  thought  of  Luke. 

"He'd  ought  to  be  the  one  to  set  his  foot 
down,"  says  Mother,  "seeing  we  can't  do  any- 
thing with  you." 

Set  his  foot  down — Luke!  Why?  Because 
he'd  tell  me  he  loved  me  and  I  said  I'd  marry 
him !  I  went  to  the  pail  for  a  drink  of  water, 
and  I  stood  there  and  laughed.  Luke  setting 
his  foot  down  on  me  because  I  said  he  might! 

"She'll  come  back  when  she's  hungry,"  says 
Father.     "Don't  carry  on  so.  Mate." 

Mate  was  Mother's  name.  I  hadn't  heard 
Father  call  her  that  many  times.  It  come  to 
me  that  my  going  away  was  something  that 
brought  them  nearer  together  for  a  minute. 
And  Mate  I  It  meant  something,  something 
that  she  was.  She  was  Father's  mate.  They'd 
met  once  for  the  first  time.  They'd  wanted 
their  life  to  be  nice.  I  ran  up  to  them  and 
kissed  them  both.  And  then  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  saw  Mother's  lip  tremble. 

"I'll  do  up  your  clean  underclothes,"  she 
says,  "and  send  'em  after  you.  You  tell  me 
where." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    73 

"Mother,  Mother!"  I  says,  and  took  hold  of 
her.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Mis'  Bingy  I'd  have 
given  up  going  then  and  there,  and  married 
Luke  whenever  he  said  so. 

It  was  Mis'  Bingy's  scared  face  that  give 
me  courage  to  go,  and  it  was  her  face  that  kept 
my  mind  off  myself  all  the  way  to  the  depot. 
I  thought  she  was  going  to  faint  away  when 
we  went  by  the  lane  that  led  up  to  their  house. 
But  we  never  heard  anything  or  saw  anybody. 
We  were  going  to  the  depot,  and  just  set  there 
until  the  first  train  come  along  for  the  city. 
And  all  the  while  we  did  set  there,  Mis'  Bingy 
got  paler  and  paler  every  time  the  door  opened, 
or  somebody  shouted  out  on  the  platform.  She 
wanted  to  take  the  first  train  that  come  in  and 
get  away  anywheres,  even  if  it  took  us  out 
of  our  way.  But  I  got  her  to  wait  the  half 
hour  till  the  city  train  come  along;  and  as  the 
time  went  by  she  begun  to  be  less  willing  to 
go  at  all. 

"Cossy,"  she  says,  when  we  heard  the  engine 
whistle,  "I've  been  wrong.  I'm  being  a  bad 
wife.    I'm  going  back." 


74    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"What  kind  of  a  wife  you're  being,"  I  says, 
"that's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it.    It's  her/' 

She  looked  down  at  the  baby.  The  baby  had 
on  her  little  best  cloak,  and  a  bonnet  that  the 
ruffle  come  down  over  her  eyes.  She  wasn't 
a  pretty  baby,  her  face  was  spotted  and  she 
made  a  crooked  mouth  when  she  cried.  But 
she  was  soft  and  helpless,  and  I  didn't  mind 
her  being  homely. 

"I'm  taking  her  away  from  a  father's  care," 
says  Mis'  Bingy,  beginning  to  cry. 

It  seemed  to  me  wicked  the  way  she  was 
stuffed  full  of  words  that  didn't  mean  any- 
thing, like  "bad  wife"  and  "father's  care."  I 
didn't  say  anything,  though.  The  baby's  hand 
lay  spread  out  on  her  cloak,  with  the  burned 
part  done  up  in  a  rag  and  some  soda,  the  way 
Mother'd  fixed  it.  I  just  picked  up  the  little 
hand,  and  looked  up  at  Mis'  Bingy. 

When  the  train  come  in,  she  went  out  and 
got  on  to  it,  without  another  word. 


CHAPTER   IV 

IT  was  past  one  o'clock  when  we  got  to  the 
city,  and  we  hadn't  had  anything  to  eat. 
We  found  a  lunch  place  near  the  depot,  and 
then  I  spent  a  penny  for  a  paper,  and  we  set 
there  in  the  restaurant  and  tried  to  find  where 
to  go.  It  wasn't  much  of  any  fun,  getting  to 
the  city,  not  the  way  you'd  think  it  would  be, 
because  Mis'  Bingy  and  I  didn't  know  where 
we  were  going. 

The  Furnished  Room  page  all  sounded  pleas- 
ant, but  when  we  asked  the  restaurant  keeper 
where  the  cheap  ones  were,  most  of  them  was 
quite  far  to  walk.  Finally  we  picked  out  some 
near  each  other  and  started  out  to  find  them. 
I  carried  my  valise  and  Mis'  Bingy's,  and  she 
had  the  baby.  It  was  a  hot  day,  with  a  feel  of 
thunder  in  the  air. 

We  walked  for  two  hours,  because  neither 
of  us  thought  we'd  ought  to  begin  by  spending 
75 


76    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

car-fare.  Mis'  Bingy  had  sixteen  dollars  that 
she'd  saved,  off  and  on,  for  two  years.  I  had 
five  dollars.  So  neither  of  us  was  worried  very 
much  about  money;  but  we  wanted  to  save  all 
we  could.  We  went  to  five  or  six  places  that 
were  nice,  but  they  cost  too  much ;  and  to  two 
that  we  could  have  taken,  only  the  lady  said 
she  didn't  want  a  baby  in  the  house. 

"H  they're  born  in  your  house,  do  you  turn 
*em  out?"  I  says  to  one  of  'em. 

Pretty  soon  we  found  a  little  grassy  place 
with  trees,  and  big  buildings  around  it,  and  we 
went  in  that  and  sat  down  on  the  grass. 

"Mis'  Bingy,"  I  says,  "was  you  ever  in  the 
city  before?" 

"Sure  I  was,"  she  says,  proud,  "twelve  years 
ago.  We  come  to  his  uncle's  funeral.  But  he 
didn't  leave  him  anything." 

"I  was  here  once,"  I  says,  "when  I  was 
'leven.  To  have  my  eyes  done  to.  And  once 
when  I  was  eighteen,  when  Mother  got  her 
teeth.  Did  you  ever  go  to  the  theater  here?'* 
I  ask'  her. 

"No,"  says  she. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    17 

"Did  you  ever  see  in  a  jewelry  store  here?" 

"No,"  says  she. 

"Or  in  stores  with  low-neck  dresses  and  light 
colors  ?" 

"No,"  says  she. 

"Nor  the  Zoo  with  the  animals,  nor  a  store 
where  they  sell  just  flowers,  nor  the  band?" 
I  says. 

"No,"  says  she.  "But  he  used  to  tell  me, 
when  he  come  up  sometimes,"  she  tacks  on. 

The  sun  kept  coming  out  and  going  under. 
The  trees  moved  pleasant  and  folks  went  hur- 
rying by.    It  kind  of  come  over  me : 

"Mis'  Bingy,"  I  says,  "you  ain't  ever  had 
anything  in  your  whole  life,  and  neither  have 
I.    And  now  it's  the  city !" 

But  she  put  her  head  down  on  the  baby  and 
begun  to  cry. 

"I  don't  know  what's  going  to  become  of 
us,"  she  sa3rs.    "It's  awful." 

I  jumped  up  and  stood  on  the  grass  and 
looked  off  down  the  street  toward  the  city. 

"And  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  become 
of  us!"  I  says.    "Ain't  it  grand?" 


78    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  laughed,  and  whirled  on  my  toe.  A  woman 
was  going  along  the  walk  that  cut  through  the 
grassy  place  where  we  was.  She  looked  nice, 
like  pictures  of  women. 

"Excuse  me,"  I  says  to  her,  "can  you  tell 
us  somebody  that  has  a  room  to  rent,  a  cheap 
room  ?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  says,  and  bent  her  head  and 
went  on. 

It  give  me  a  little  cold  feeling.  It  come  to 
me  that  maybe  everything  wasn't  the  way  it 
looked. 

"Come  on.  Mis'  Bingy,"  I  says,  "it's  getting 
late.  We  don't  want  to  sleep  out  here  to- 
night." 

The  room  that  we  finally  found  was  at  the 
back  and  up  two  stairways,  and  it  cost  fifty 
cents  more  than  we  thought  we'd  pay,  but  we 
took  it. 

And  now  the  singing  in  me  that  I'd  been 
keeping  down  while  there  was  things  to  do, 
come  up  through,  the  little  funny  singing  that 
was  all  over  me.    I  took  out  the  two  cards — 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    79 

that  I'd  got  only  that  morning,  that  seemed 
lifetimes  back — and  laid  one  of  'em  on  the  bu- 
reau. It  was  Mr.  Ember's  card.  The  other 
one  I  wouldn't  look  up  till  to-morrow  when  I 
started  out  to  find  my  work.  But  this  one  was 
his  card,  that  he'd  told  me  would  find  him. 
He'd  been  on  his  way  back  to  the  city  that 
morning.  By  now  he  would  be  here.  And  I 
wasn't  going  to  wait. 

I  put  on  my  other  shoes  and  a  clean  waist, 
and  I  told  Mis'  Bingy  that  I'd  be  back  in  a  lit- 
tle while.  She  was  going  to  try  to  go  to  sleep. 
I  heard  her  lock  the  door  before  I  got  to  the 
stairs,  and  I  knew  that  she'd  be  afraid  all  the 
time  that  Keddie  was  going  to  find  her. 

Out  on  the  street  I  asked  how  to  get  to  the 
address  on  the  card.  It  was  on  the  far  edge  of 
the  town :  the  policeman  begun  to  tell  me  which 
car  to  take. 

"I'll  walk,"  I  says. 

"It'll  take  you  an  hour,"  says  he. 

"It's  my  hour,"  says  I,  and  I  started.  But 
it  come  to  me  that  that  wasn't  the  way  Mr. 


80    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Ember  would  have  thought  anybody  ought  to 
answer,  and  I  felt  kind  of  sick.  I  thought, 
How  was  I  going  to  remember  to  do  all  the 
ways  I  knew  he'd  want? 

It  took  me  more  than  an  hour  to  walk  it. 
It  was  'most  six  o'clock  when  I  finally  turned 
in  the  little  street,  just  a  block  long,  where  he 
lived.  My  heart  begun  to  beat,  while  I  walked 
along  slow,  looking  at  the  numbers.  It  come 
to  me  that  maybe  he  wouldn't  be  glad  to  sec 
me. 

Sixteen  .  .  .  eighteen  .  .  .  twenty- 
two  .  .  .  twenty-four,  and  that  was  his. 
It  had  a  high  brick  fence — I  could  just  see  the 
roof  over  it — and  a  little  picket  gate  standing 
open.  I  went  along  a  short  walk  with  green 
and  yellow  bushes  on  each  side  to  a  low  porch 
with  a  door,  that  was  standing  open,  too.  And 
on  the  door  was  two  cards :  "Mr.  Arthur  Gor- 
don" was  on  one.  The  other  was  his.  Below 
them  it  said :  "Visitors  Enter." 

So  I  went  in,  the  way  it  said,  through  a  low, 
bare,  dim  hall,  and  through  a  door  on  the  right 
to  a  little  room;  and  beyond  was  a  big  room. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    81 

with  a  queer,  sloping  window  all  over  the  ceil- 
ing. The  room  had  pictures  on  the  walls.  And 
it  was  full  of  folks. 

I  stood  by  the  door  looking  for  him.  It 
didn*t  seem  possible  that  we  could  meet  here, 
now,  when  I'd  left  him  such  a  little  while  ago, 
there  in  Twiney's  pasture.  There  was  a  good 
many  different  kinds  of  men,  most  of  them 
smiling.  They  were  looking  at  the  pictures, 
or  drinking  from  cups  round  a  white  table. 
I  looked  at  them  first,  one  after  another;  but 
none  of  them  was  him. 

Then  I  begun  noticing  the  women.  They 
looked  like  the  kind  I'd  seen  in  the  Weekly, 
Saturdays,  when  there  was  pictures.  They 
were  all  light-colored,  with  dresses  that  you 
couldn't  tell  how  they  were  made,  and  hair  that 
you  couldn't  remember  how  it  was  done  up, 
and  soft  voices  that  went  up  and  down,  differ- 
ent from  any  I'd  ever  heard.  I  could  hear 
what  some  of  them  near  me  were  saying,  but 
there  was  none  of  it  that  I  could  understand, 
nor  what  it  was  about,  nor  what  the  names 
meant.    And  all  of  a  sudden  I  see  through  it : 


82    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

These  folks  must  all  have  done  the  things  he 
had  done — ^Asia,  Europe,  volcanoes — and  they 
could  talk  about  it  his  way.  These  were  the 
kind  of  people  he  was  used  to. 

Right  near  me  was  a  woman  in  a  dress  that 
looked  like  I've  seen  the  clouds  look  like,  all 
showing  through  pink,  with  a  hat  like  I'd  never 
seen  except  once  in  a  window  when  I  was  wait- 
ing for  Mother  and  her  teeth.  I  remember 
just  what  the  woman  said — I  stood  saying  it 
over,  like  when  I  was  learning  a  piece  for  elo- 
cution class,  home.    She  says : 

"I  beg  your  pardon?  But  I  fancy  Mr. 
Ember  would  call  that  effect  far  from  artifi- 
cial    .     .     ." 

They  walked  by  me.  I  stood  there,  saying 
over  and  over  what  she  had  just  said  about  Mr. 
Ember.  I  didn't  know  what  it  meant,  but  it 
made  me  remember  something.  It  made  me  re- 
member the  way  I'd  talked  to  him  that  morn- 
ing, and  the  song  I'd  sung  him,  running  back- 
ward on  the  road  and  trying  to  flirt  with  him ; 
and  that  about  his  not  giving  me  his  right 
name. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    83 

"Pardon  me,"  somebody  near  me  said,  "I 
wonder  if  I  may  serve  you  in  any  way?" 

"  I  didn't  half  see  the  man  who  spoke  to  me. 
I  just  shook  my  head,  and  slipped  out  the  door 
and  out  of  the  little  yard. 


CHAPTER   V 

IT  was  that  night  that  I  begun  this  book. 
I'd  brought  in  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  little 
warming  pan  and  a  can  of  baked  beans.  We 
het  the  beans  over  the  gas-jet  and  made  a  good 
supper — the  water  in  the  wash  pitcher  was  all 
right  to  drink.  Then  Mis'  Bingy  went  to  bed 
with  the  baby,  and  I  got  out  the  paper  I'd  fixed, 
and  I  started.  It  seemed  as  though  I  must. 
I  had  the  feeling  that  I  wanted  to  get  out  from 
the  place  I  was  in.  Home,  when  I  felt  like 
that,  I  used  to  sweep  the  parlor  or  shampoo 
my  hair,  or  try  to  get  Father  to  leave  me  earn 
some  money,  helping  him.  Once  I  took  my 
egg  money  and  started-^lessons  on  our  organ. 
But  such  things  don't  get  you  anywheres.  And 
it  seemed  as  though  the  book  would  help. 

I  didn't  know  anything  to  write  about,  only 
just  me.    It  come  to  me  that  I  ought  to  tell 
84 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    85 

about  me.  But  nothing  worth  writing  had  ever 
happened  to  me  till  just  that  morning.  So  I 
started  in,  and  wrote  near  all  night — down  to 
the  part  where  we  got  to  the  city.  The  gas 
snielled  bad.  I  always  remember  that  night. 
Before  I  knew  it,  it  was  getting  light  in  the 
window.  Then  I  put  up  the  paper  and  crawled 
over  back  of  Mis'  Bingy  and  the  baby,  and 
went  to  sleep.  And  when  I  went  to  sleep,  and 
when  I  woke  up  in  the  morning,  the  same  thing 
was  in  my  head  right  along — that  mebbe  I 
could  get  to  be  enough  different  so's  I  could 
see  him  again,  some  day.  Because  I  knew  I 
wasn't  never  going  to  let  him  see  me  again 
while  I  was  the  way  I  was  now.  But  I  won- 
dered how  to  get  different. 

"Mis'  Bingy,"  I  says  next  morning,  "how 
do  folks  get  different?" 

"Hard  work  and  trouble,  mostly,"  she  says. 

"I  don't  mean  backward,"  I  says.  "I  mean 
frontward." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  donno,"  she  says. 
"I  used  to  think  about  that,  some." 

We  had  the  rest  of  the  beans  and  bread,  and 


86    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

then  I  started  out.  After  she  got  the  baby 
dressed,  Mis'  Bingy  was  going  out  to  set  in  the 
green  place  where  we'd  been  yesterday. 

"I  could  work,"  she  says,  "if  it  wasn't  for 
the  baby.  She's  lots  of  work,  too.  But  that 
don't  earn  us  nothing." 

She  was  always  making  lace,  and  she'd 
brought  along  a  lot  she  made — the  bottom 
drawer  of  the  washstand  was  full  of  it.  Mak- 
ing that,  and  tending  the  baby,  kep'  her  occu- 
pied; but,  as  she  said,  it  didn't  earn  us  any- 
thing. 

I  had  the  other  card  that  Mr.  Ember  had 
given  me,  and  that  morning  I  started  out  to 
find  the  man.  John  Carney,  the  name  was, 
and  it  was  a  long  ways  to  walk.  It  was  in  a 
big  office  building.  And  when  I  got  to  the 
right  door,  a  smart  young  guy  behind  a  fence 
says.  What  did  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Carney  about, 
and  wouldn't  one  of  the  men  in  the  office  do? 
I  just  give  him  Mr.  Ember's  card  to  take  in, 
and  when  he'd  gone  I  felt  glad;  because  if  it 
had  been  the  day  before,  when  I  hadn't  seen 
that  room  full  of  folks  nor  heard  the  woman 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    87 

in  the  pinkish  dress  speak  Hke  she  done,  I  bet 
I'd  of  said  to  that  young  guy:  "You  go  and 
chase  yourself  to  the  pasture  and  quit  your 
fresh  lip."  Just  like  Lena  Curtsy  would  have 
said. 

I  had  to  wait  quite  a  while  till  they  sent  for 
me.  And  when  I  went  in  the  office,  long  and 
like  a  parlor  in  a  picture,  I  stood  in  front  of 
a  big  gray  man  whose  shoulders  were  the  prin- 
cipal part.  And  there  was  a  little  young  man 
there,  sitting  loose  in  a  big  easy  chair,  looking 
at  a  newspaper.  I  noticed  the  little  young  man 
particular,  because  he  didn't  look  like  anything, 
and  he  acted  like  so  much.  He  didn't  belong 
in  the  office.     He  just  happened. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  madam?"  says  the 
big  gray  man,  with  Mr.  Ember's  card  in  his 
hand.     "Mr.  Carney  is  absent  in  Europe." 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "then  I  don't  know.  Mr.  Em- 
ber thought  Mr.  Camey'd  maybe  help  me  to 
get  a  job." 

The  little  young  man  spoke  i^p. 

"I  expect  you'll  meet  up  with  a  good  deaf 
of  that  kind  of  thing.  Bliss,"  he  says,  glancing 


88    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

up  from  his  newspaper  and  glancing  down 
again.  "Everybody  sends  'em  to  my  uncle. 
He — makes  it  a  point  to  know  of  things.  He's 
a  regular  employment  agency,  d'y'see,  for  the 
jobless  friends  of  his  friends.  I  —  er  — 
shouldn't  let  it  bother  me." 

The  big  gray  man  was  real  nice  and  regret- 
ful. 

"Fm  genuinely  sorry,"  he  said.  *T  really 
am.  I  happen  to  know  Ember  a  little — I'd 
be  glad  to  oblige  him.  But  this- — we  don't  need 
a  thing  here.  I'm  sorry  Mr.  Carney  is  away. 
It's  unfortunate,  but  he  is  away,  for  some 
months." 

He  said  a  few  more  things  polite,  and  he 
took  down  my  name  and  address  and  said  if 
anything  should  turn  up  .  .  .  And  I  hap- 
pened to  think  of  something.  If  we  had  to 
wait  very  long,  it  might  bother  some  about  the 
rent. 

"You  don't  think  it  would  be  very  long,  do 
you?"  I  says.  "On  account  of  Mis'  Bingy 
and  my  rent." 

"I  wish  I  could  promise  something  more," 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    89 

says  the  big  gray  man,  looking  back  on  his  desk 
papers.     "I'm  sorry.    Good  morning." 

I  didn't  think  till  afterward  that  he'd  never 
even  troubled  to  ask  me  v^hat  I  could  do. 

Then  the  little  young  man  that  had  been  set- 
ting loose  in  his  chair,  sat  up  loose,  and  spoke 
loose,  too. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  "if  she's  a  friend  of  Em- 
ber's, I  might  give  her  a  card  to  the  factory." 

"I  shouldn't  trouble  if  I  were  you,  Arthur," 
says  the  big  gray  man,  sharp;  which  I  didn't 
think  was  very  nice  of  him. 

But  the  little  young  man,  tipping  his  cigar 
so*s  the  smoke  would  keep  out  of  his  eyes,  and 
squinting  back  from  it,  took  out  a  card  and 
scrawled  on  it  and  tossed  it  across  the  table 
toward  me. 

"You  might  try  that,"  he  says.  And  shook 
himself,  loose  again,  and  strolled  out  the  door. 
He  walked  loose,  too. 

I  thanked  him  and  put  the  card  away,  and 
went  down  in  the  elevator.  It  was  the  same 
elevator,  it  turned  out,  that  the  little  young  man 
had  taken,  but  of  course  he  didn't  notice  me. 


90    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

When  I  got  down  I  asked  the  man  at  the  door 
how  to  get  to  the  address  of  the  factory  that 
was  written  on  the  card.  He  said  it  was  about 
two  miles,  and  told  me  with  his  thumb  which 
way.  While  I  was  trying  to  make  out  which 
way  he  meant,  I  stood  for  a  minute  in  the 
street  doorway.  And  there  was  the  little 
young  man  again. 

"Do  you  know  how  to  get  to  the  factory?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes.  On  my  two  feet,"  I  says  back,  and 
started. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  walk 
all  that  way?"  he  says,  following  me  a  step  or 
two. 

"No,"  I  says,  "I  don't  mean  to  say  it,  as  I 
know  of." 

"Look  here,"  he  says,  "my  car  is  here  at  the 
side  door.  I'm  on  my  way  over  to  the  fac- 
tory now.    Can't  I  give  you  a  lift?" 

I  thought  for  a  minute.  I  was  awful  tired. 
If  I  walked  all  that  way  and  then  home,  I'd 
have  to  spend  ten  cents  for  lunch  that  would 
be  enough  for  Mis'  Bingy  and  me  both  at  night. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    91 

The  little  young  man  was  a  friend  of  Mr.  Car- 
ney's, that  was  a  friend  of  Mr.  Ember's    .    .    . 

"We'll  be  there  in  ten  minutes,"  he  says. 

"Much  obliged,"  I  says,  and  went  with  him. 

He  had  a  nice  little  shiny  two-seated  car 
that  he  engineered  himself.  When  we  was 
headed  down  the  avenue  he  says: 

"My  name  is  Arthur  Carney.  I'm  Mr.  Car- 
ney's nephew." 

I  remembered  about  the  awful  things  I'd 
said  to  Mr.  Ember,  so  I  answered  just  as  nice 
as  I  knew  how :  "I'm  Cosma  Wakely." 

"Do  you  live  here  in  town  ?"  he  ask'  me. 

"No,"  I  says.  "I  just  come  from  Katytown 
last  night.    Yes,  I  do  live  here  now — I  forgot." 

"Really,"  he  says. 

The  car  went  so  quick  and  smooth  and  even 
I  could  have  sung  because  I  was  in  it.  I'd  never 
been  in  an  automobile  before. 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "ain't  this  just  grand?" 

He  looked  over  at  me — ^he  had  a  real  white 
face  and  gold  glasses  and  not  much  of  any  hair 
showed.  His  clothes  and  his  gloves  was  like 
new,  and  some  white  cuffs  peeked  out. 


92    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"I  think  so,"  he  says.    "I'm  glad  you  do.'* 

"I  meant  the  car,"  I  says;  and  then  I  was 
afraid  I'd  made  another  mistake,  Hke  I  had 
with  Mr.  Ember,  and  that  the  car  was  what 
the  Httle  young  man  had  meant,  too. 

But  he  was  looking  at  me  and  laughing. 

"You're  awfully  sure  what  you  mean,  aren't 
you?"  he  says.    "Are  you  always  that  sure?" 

I  kept  thinking  that  he  was  Mr.  Carney's 
nephew,  and  that  Mr.  Carney  was  Mr.  Ember's 
friend.  I  wanted  to  answer  him  like  I  knew 
Mr.  Ember  would  like.  I'd  answered  him 
saucy  when  he  first  spoke  to  me,  but  that  was 
part  because  I  was  embarrassed.  So  I  didn't 
say  anything  at  all.  I  didn't  care  whether  he 
thought  I  was  a  country  girl  and  a  stick  or  not. 
I  wanted  to  act  nice. 

"What  made  you  run  away  from  me  yester- 
day?" he  says. 

"Yesterday?"  I  ask'  him. 

"At  Gordon's  studio,"  he  says.  "You  don't 
mean  to  say  you've  forgotten  that  I  spoke  to 
you  when  you  stood  in  the  doorway  ?  And  you 
ran  away." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    93 

I  ask'  him,  before  I  meant  to,  "Was  Mr. 
Ember  there?" 

"Ember?  No,"  he  says;  "he's  never  here. 
He  works  off  in  God- forsaken  spots.  How 
are  you  going  to  Hke  the  city  ?" 

I  looked  down  the  shiny  crowded  street. 
All  to  once  I  saw  it  different.  Before  that  I'd 
been  thinking  he  might  be  in  every  crowd. 

"It's  awful  lonesome  here,"  I  says. 

The  policeman  at  the  comer  held  up  his 
hand,  and  we  had  to  sit  still  and  wait.  The 
little  young  man  leaned  on  the  wheel. 

"I  hope  you'll  let  me  keep  you  from  getting 
too  lonesome,"  he  says. 

I  turned  round  on  him.  In  another  minute 
I'd  have  given  him  the  thing  I  always  tried 
to  say  back,  smart  and  quick.  "When  I'm  that 
lonesome,  I'll  go  traveling  back  home  again," 
was  what  come  in  my  head.  Instead  of  that, 
all  at  once  I  wondered  what  the  woman  in  the 
pinkish  dress  and  hat  in  the  studio  would  have 
said.    And  I  said  what  she  did  say : 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

He  laughed.  "All  right,"  he  said,  and  started 


94    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

the  car.  "I  do  go  pretty  fast.  But,  by  jove, 
you  know,  you  bowl  a  fellow  over." 

I  didn't  say  anything.  I  was  thinking. 
Here  was  a  man  that  had  been  with  all  those 
people  yesterday,  the  people  that  were  the  way 
I  wanted  to  be.  He  had  always  been  with 
them.  He  had  money,  I  thought — his  clothes 
and  his  cuffs,  and  then  the  car,  looked  as  if 
he  had.  Probably  he  knew  the  same  things, 
almost,  that  Mr.  Ember  knew.  He  ought  to 
be  able  to  help  me. 

"Mr.  Carney,"  I  says,  "have  you  been  to  see 
Europe,  and  Asia — and  volcanoes?" 

"Have  I  what?"  says  he. 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "traveled.  Well,  I  guess  you 
have  seen  all  the  things  and  places  there  are 
to  see,  haven't  you  ?" 

"I've  done  a  turn  or  two,"  he  says.  "Why  ? 
Are  you  interested  in  travel?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  says;  "but— of  course—" 

"Do  you  want  to  travel?"  he  says,  turning 
to  look  at  me. 

"Why,"  I  says;  "but  I  mean—" 

He  stopped  the  car  for  the  policeman  at  the 
next  comer. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    95 

"Because,"  he  says,  leaning  on  the  wheel 
again,  "if  you  want  to  travel,  you  shall  travel." 

It  was  almost  what  Mr.  Ember  had  said.  I 
was  so  thankful  that  now  I  knew  enough  to 
answer  nice,  and  not  the  awful  way  I  had  done 
to  Mr.  Ember. 

"I  hope  so,"  I  says.    "I  do  want  to." 

I  thought  he  was  waiting  for  me  to  look 
round  at  him ;  but  there  was  a  little  dog  in  the 
automobile  next  to  us,  and  I  was  watching  that. 

"When?"  he  says.    "When?" 

I  says,  "The  gentleman  blew  his  whistle." 

He  laughed,  and  started  the  car,  and  I  went 
on  with  what  I'd  been  wanting  to  say. 

"I  was  thinking,"  I*  says,  "you've  probably 
seen  a  'whole  lots  of  folks,  like  I  mean  about. 
Well,  I  wanted  to  ask  you :  How  do  folks  get 
different?  I  mean,  when  they've  started  in 
being  like  me  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  child?"  he  says. 

"Get  different,"  I  says.  "Get  like  those 
women  there  yesterday." 

"There  wasn't  a  woman  in  the  room  yester- 
day who  could  hold  a  candle  to  you,  and  you 
know  it,"  he  says.    "Ever  since  yesterday  I've 


96    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

been  cursing  myself  that  I  didn't  follow  you. 
I  couldn't  believe  my  eyes  when  I  saw  you 
come  into  that  office  this  morning.  Why  in 
the  world  would  you  want  to  be  different?" 

I  wanted  to  say,  "Because  I  want  something 
more  than  that  in  mine!"  But  I  didn't.  I 
spoke  just  regular. 

"No,"  I  says,  "I  mean  true.  I  mean,  learn 
things.  Not  school  things,  but  how  to  do. 
How  do  you  start  out?    I  mean,  if  it's  me?" 

He  kept  looking  at  me,  in  between  guiding 
his  car. 

"So  that's  it !"  he  says.  "And  you  want  me 
to  tell  you?" 

"Yes !"  I  says.  "More  than  anything  else." 
He  turned  his  car  into  a  side  street,  and  run 
it  slow.  We  was  almost  to  the  factory,  I 
judged.    I  could  see  smoke  and  big  walls. 

"You  can  have  whatever  schooling  or  train- 
ing there  is  in  this  town  that  you  want — or 
anywhere  else,"  he  says  to  me,  "if  you  just  say 
the  word." 

It  was  just  the  way  Mr.  Ember  had  spoken, 
and  Mr.  Ember  had  meant  that  I  mustn't  think 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    97 

there  was  nothing  else  for  me  only  just  what 
I'd  got,  if  I  was  willing  to  work  for  something 
more.  So  I  see  the  little  young  man  must  think 
as  he  did. 

"It's  nice  to  think  so,"  I  says. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  says  he. 

"Why,  of  course,"  I  says.  "Is  this  the  fac- 
tory?" 

"You  insist  on  trying  for  a  job?"  he  says. 

"Why,  yes,"  I  says.  "Don't  you  think  I  can 
get  one?" 

"Sure  you  can  get  one,"  he  says,  "if  I  say 
the  word." 

I  wondered  how  he  done  what  he  done.  It 
wasn't  five  minutes  that  I  waited  in  the  stuffy 
dirty  room  by  the  gate  into  the  factory  yard, 
before  a  man  come  and  told  me  to  go  up  to  the 
next  floor. 

When  I  crossed  the  yard  the  little  young 
man  come  out  of  a  door  and  he  says  to  me : 

"Good-by,  and  good  luck  to  you."  And  he 
adds  low,  "I'll  be  waiting  for  you  at  six  o'clock 
at  the  door  we  came  in." 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "don't  you  do  that,  Mr.  Car- 


98    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

ney !  Mr.  Ember  wouldn't  want  me  to  trouble 
the  other  Mr.  Carney  or  you  either,  not  that 
much." 

He  scowled.  "This  isn't  exactly  on  his  ac- 
count, you  know." 

And  when  he  went  off  he  didn't  take  off  his 
hat  to  me,  like  Mr.  Ember  had  done,  and  like 
I  thought  city  men  always  done. 

I  kept  thinking  all  that  over  while  they 
started  me  in  to  work,  punching  holes  in  a  card. 
I  thought  about  it  so  hard  that  when  night 
came  I  asked  the  forewoman  if  I  could  walk 
to  the  car  with  her.  I  thought  I  could  take  the 
street-car,  now  I  had  a  job.  She  was  a  big 
red  woman.  "That  don't  work  with  me,  you'll 
find,"  she  says,  and  went  past  me.  I  guess  she 
didn't  understand  what  I  said.  So  I  went  out 
with  some  of  the  other  girls,  and  it  just  hap- 
pened that  I  got  out  another  door  than  the 
one  I  went  in,  and  on  to  the  street-car. 

I  bought  a  can  of  peas  and  four  rolls  and 
five  cents  butter,  to  celebrate. 

"Mis'   Bingy,"   I   says,   when   I   went  in, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    99 

"scratch  a  match,  and  start  the  cook  stove  up 
there  on  the  wall!  I've  got  a  job  for  three 
dollars  a  week,  from  eight  till  six.  Didn't  I 
tell  you  everything' d  be  easy  ?" 


CHAPTER   VI 

I  COUNTED  up,  and  found  if  we  were  to 
have  enough  for  room  rent  and  food,  I 
couldn't  spend  any  sixty  cents  a  week  for  car- 
fare. So  I  left  home  at  seven  every  morning 
and  walked  to  work.  At  night  I  was  so  tired 
I  took  the  car.  Then  we'd  have  supper  on  the 
gas-jet,  and  I'd  try  to  write;  but  almost  always 
I  was  so  sleepy  I  went  right  to  bed. 

Mis'  Bingy  had  got  so  she  didn't  cry  so 
much.  She  didn't  take  much  comfort  going 
out  to  walk,  she  was  so  afraid  of  Keddie  find- 
ing her. 

"It's  comfort  enough  not  to  feel  I'm  goin' 
to  be  murdered  every  night,"  she  says.  "I'd 
just  as  lieve  set  here." 

After  we'd  been  there  three  days,  I  wrote 
to  Mother  and  to  Luke.    To  Mother  I  said : 

"Dear  Mother: 

"We  are  well,  and  hope  this  finds  you  the 
same.     I  have  got  a  job.     We  are  all  right, 

100 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     101 

and  hope  you  are.  I  hope  the  boys  are  all 
right,  and  Father.  Mis'  Bingy  says  for  you 
to  be  sure  to  tell  her  the  news  when  you  write. 
Mis'  Bingy  and  the  baby  are  well,  and  I  am 
the  same.    So  good-by  now. 

"COSMA," 

I  read  it  over,  and  wondered  about  it.  I 
had  never  been  away  from  home  before  long 
enough  to  write  a  letter  to  them.  And  I 
couldn't  think  of  anything  to  say.  It  seemed 
to  me  I  was  a  little  girl  in  my  letter.  I  won- 
dered if  that  was  because  they  thought  that 
was  what  I  was. 

Then  I  wrote  to  Luke.  You'd  think  that 
would  have  been  harder,  but  it  was  easier.  I 
says: 

"Dear  Luke: 

"They  told  you,  I  guess,  how  I  come  off  with 
Mis'  Bingy.  But,  Luke,  I  would  of  come  any- 
way, if  I  could.  I  thought  it  was  all  right  to 
be  your  wife,  but  I  want  to  see  if  there  is  any- 
thing else  I  would  rather  do.  So  I'm  not  en- 
gaged to  you  any  more.  If  I  come  back,  and 
if  you  are  not  married  to  somebody  else,  all 
right,  if  you  still  want  me  by  that  time.  But 
I  don't  think  I'll  come  back  for  a  long  time. 


102    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  told  you  I  didn't  think  I  loved  you,  and  you 
said  I  had  to  marry  somebody.  But  now  I 
don't,  Luke,  because  I  got  a  job.  Please  don't 
think  hard  of  me.  This  was  meant  right,  Luke. 

•'COSMA." 

I  wrote  another  letter,  too — just  because  it 
felt  good  to  be  writing  it.    It  said : 

"Dear  Mr.  Ember: 

"I  want  you  to  know  I  done  as  you  said.  I 
left  home,  and  I  Jeft  Luke,  and  I'm  going  to 
see  if  there  is  anything  in  the  world  for  me  to 
be  that  I  can  get  to  be.  I've  got  a  job,  and  I've 
got  you  to  thank  for  that.  Mr.  Carney's 
nephew  got  it  for  me. 

"There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you 
that's  hard  to  say.  I  want  you  to  know  that 
the  walk  that  morning  was  the  nicest  thing  that 
ever  happened  to  me.  It  made  me  see  that  the 
cheap  me — ^the  vulgar  me,  like  you  said — 
wasn't  the  only  me  there  is  to  me.  Clear  in- 
side is  something  that  can  be  another  me.  I 
knew  that  before,  in  the  grove,  and  early  in 
the  morning,  like  I  said.  But  I  didn't  think  I 
could  ever  let  it  out  enough  to  be  me.  I  didn't 
trust  it,  not  till  you  came. 

"And  that's  what  makes  me  think  I  can  be 
different,  the  way  you  said  to.  I'd  hate  for 
you  to  think  I  was  just  the  sassy  girl  I  acted 
that  morning.    There's  something  else  I  can't 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    103 

bear  to  have  you  think — that's  that  I  didn't 
know  how  different  I  acted  at  the  table  from 
what  you  did.    I  did  know. 

"I've  got  a  job,  and  Mis'  Bingy  and  the 
baby  are  here — I  knocked  her  husband  down 
before  I  come  because  he  was  drunk  and  was 
going  to  kill  her,  so  we  thought  we  better  leave 
there.  That  was  how  we  come.  But  I  guess 
I  would  have  come  anyway  after  I  talked  with 
you. 

"Your  friend, 

"CosMA  Wakely." 

"P.  S. — I  say  Cosma  all  the  time  now." 

I  sealed  it  up  and  directed  it,  and  slipped  it 
in  my  book.  I  wouldn't  send  it;  but  it  was 
nice  to  write  it. 

The  second  day  I  was  in  the  factory,  a  girl 
come  to  me  in  the  hall  and  asked  me  if  I'd  go 
out  with  her  to  lunch.  I  said  I  had  my  roll  and 
a  banana ;  but  I'd  walk  along  with  her  and  eat 
'em.  She  said  that  was  what  she  meant — she 
had  some  crackers  and  an  apple.  So  we  walked 
down  the  block.     Her  name  was  Rose  Everly. 

There  was  a  place  half-way  along  there 
where  some  policemen  were  always  sitting  out, 
and  when  we  went  past  there  one  of  them 


104    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

spoke  to  her.  She  stopped,  and  she  gave  me 
an  introduction. 

*'Miss  Wakely/*  she  says,  "you  meet  Ser- 
geant Ebbit." 

"Pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance,"  says 
he.     "How's  the  strike  coming  on  ?" 

"I  don't  know  as  I  know  anything  about  any 
strike,"  she  says,  throwing  up  her  head. 

"How  about  you?"  he  says  to  me.  "You 
whinin'  too?" 

I  didn't  know  what  he  meant,  and  I  guess 
he  see  I  didn't.  He  laughed,  and  brought  us 
out  a  couple  of  oranges. 

"I'll  be  the  first  to  run  in  the  both  of  you, 
though,"  he  says,  "if  you  start  any  nonsense." 

"What's  he  mean?"  I  says,  when  we  went  on. 

"He's  new  over  here,  or  he  wouldn't  be  so 
sassy,  not  to  me,"  says  Rose.  "Well,  I  brought 
you  out  here  to  put  you  wise." 

Then  she  told  me,  while  we  walked  up  and 
down  and  et  our  oranges. 

It  seems  there  was  things  in  the  factory 
that  I  didn't  have  any  notion  about.  My  own 
job  was  in  the  printing  office,  connected  with 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     105 

the  factory.  I  was  running  a  Gordon  press, 
at  slow  speed,  learning  to  feed  it  right.  At  the 
first  of  the  next  week,  I  was  going  to  be  put  on 
full  speed.  We  was  to  print  from  twelve 
thousand  to  fifteen  thousand  envelopes  a  day, 
then ;  and  I  knew  what  that  meant,  from  watch- 
ing the  other  machines.  There  was  a  time 
keeper  over  the  full-speed  machines,  and  it  was 
hurry,  hurry,  hurry,  all  day  long.  It  was  all 
right  while  I  was  learning  it,  but  I  hated  to 
think  about  making  the  same  motion  twelve  or 
fifteen  thousand  times  every  day.  In  our  room 
there  was  sixty  or  so.  I  used  to  notice  the 
air,  it  smelled  of  some  kind  of  gas  and  it  was 
full  of  paper  dust.  When  they  swept  up  they 
never  wet  the  broom;  and  when  I  asked  the 
man  if  he  didn't  know  enough  to  do  that  he 
swore  at  me.     It  wasn't  a  nice  place  to  work. 

But  it  seems  there  was  other  things  that  I 
didn't  know  about  yet.  There  was  fines  for 
everything,  and  dockings  for  most  that  many. 
We  had  to  go  through  the  other  factory  to  get 
out,  and  it  seems  they  locked  the  doors  on  us 
as  soon  as  we  got  in,  and  of  course  that  was 


106    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

bad  if  there'd  be  a  fire.  Then  there  was  things 
about  the  foreman;  and  there  wasn't  any  Sat- 
urday half-hoHday.  And  it  seems  the  girls 
had  joined  together  and  asked  for  better  things. 
And  Rose  wanted  to  know  if  I'd  be  one  of 
them. 

"Sure,"  I  says,  "is  there  anybody  that 
won't?" 

"Them  that's  afraid  of  their  jobs,"  she  says. 
"If  we  don't  get  what  we  think  we  ought  to 
have,  we'll — quit.  We're  going  to  have  a 
meeting  to-morrow  night.  Can  you  come,  and 
will  you  talk?" 

"Sure  I'll  come,"  I  says.  "But  I  can't  talk. 
I  don't  know  enough." 

The  sergeant  says  something  else  to  us  when 
we  come  back. 

"He'll  likely  be  running  us  both  in  for  getting 
a  row  made  at  us,  picketing,  next  week  at 
this  time,"  Rose  said.  At  the  door  she  took 
hold  of  my  arm.  "Good  for  you !"  she  says. 
"We  was  all  afraid  of  you  when  we  heard 
about  Carney." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked  her. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     107 

"  'Bout  Arthur  Carney  gettin'  you  your 
job,"  she  says. 

"Yes,"  I  says.  "What's  that  got  to  do  with 
it?" 

She  laughed.  "You  baby!"  she  says. 
"Don't  you  know  he  owns  the  whole  outfit?" 

"The  factory?"  I  says. 

He  owned  most  of  it,  she  told  me.  I  kept 
going  over  that  all  the  while  I  fed  my  machine. 
And  I  kept  going  over  what  he'd  said  to  me  in 
his  car.  I  felt  as  if  I  didn't  want  to  see  him 
again,  no  matter  how  much  he  talked  about 
school ;  but  I  tried  not  to  think  that,  because  he 
was  Mr.  Carney's  nephew,  and  Mr.  Carney 
was  Mr.  Ember's  friend. 

I  went  to  the  meeting,  as  I  said  I  would; 
but  it  was  hard  for  me  to  make  much  out  of  it. 
There  was  all  these  things  ought  to  be  changed 
in  the  factory,  and  we  knew  it,  and  we  thought 
we'd  ought  to  have  a  little  more  wages;  I 
wanted  more  when  I  began  on  full  speed,  but 
I  didn't  think  I  was  going  to  get  it.  It  seemed 
to  me  the  thing  to  do  was  to  ask  to  have 
things   changed,    and,    if   they   didn't   do   it, 


108    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

quit  till  they  did  change  them.  But  at  the 
meeting  I  found  that  there  was  those  that  was 
afraid  to  ask — just  for  fire-escapes  and  decent 
cleanliness  and  a  few  cents  more  a  week  and 
extra  pay  for  overtime.  And  then  I  found 
out  something  else,  that  if  they  wouldn't  give 
us  these  things  and  we  did  quit,  there  was 
some  of  us  that  wouldn't  agree  to  quit,  and 
maybe  others  that  would  come  in  and  take 
our  jobs,  and  put  up  with  what  we  had  been 
trying  to  make  better.  When  I  got  that 
through  my  head,  I  stood  right  up  at  the  meet- 
ing to  ask  a  question. 

"They  couldn't  take  our  jobs  if  we  stood 
out  in  front  and  tried  to  get  it  into  their  heads 
what  we  was  trying  to  do,  could  they  ?"  I  says. 
"Ain't  it  just  because  they  don't  see  what  we're 
trying  to  do  ?" 

They  all  laughed,  and  the  woman  that  was 
speaking — somebody  from  outside  the  factory 
— says  yes,  she  thought  that  was  it,  they  didn't 
see  what  we  were  trying  to  do. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  I  could 
hardly  wait.     I  was  up  early  and  out  while 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     109 

Mis'  Bingy  was  still  asleep.  I  hated  to  leave 
her  all  day,  but  it  seemed  as  if  ever  since  I 
come  to  the  city  something  out  there  was  call- 
ing me.  I  dunno  where  I  went.  I  tramped 
for  miles,  and  I  spent  fifteen  cents  car-fare, 
besides  transfers,  but  I  didn't  care.  I  had 
some  rolls  in  a  bag,  and  I  et  them  when  I  didn't 
show.     And  I  looked  and  looked. 

I  found  hundreds  of  folks,  going  off  for  all 
day,  washed  and  dressed  up  and  with  lunches 
and  children,  headed  out  in  the  country,  I 
judged.  Some  of  them  looked  like  Father 
and  Mother  and  Mis'  Bingy,  and  as  if  they 
couldn't  be  any  other  way.  I  set  on  the  car 
with  them,  and  kind  of  see  through  them,  and 
knew  how  they  must  snap  each  other  up,  home, 
when  they  wasn't  dressed  up.  I  wondered 
what  God  wanted  so  many  for,  that  couldn't 
be  different  because  it  was  too  late.  But  some, 
and  most  of  all  the  children,  looked  as  if  they 
might  have  been  most  anybody,  if  they  were 
given  a  chance.  I  wondered  how  they  could 
get  the  chance,  and  if  none  of  them  tried.  I 
wondered  how  I  could  try.     I  knew  I'd  never 


110    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

get  it  in  the  factory.  No  matter  if  we  got  all 
the  things  we  were  asking  for,  it  was  a  dog's 
life — I  knew  that  already.  It  wasn't  much 
better  than  Bert  and  Henny  had,  to  the  blast 
furnace.  They  got  dirty,  and  had  to  work 
straight  twenty- four  hours  once  every  two 
weeks ;  but  they  made  their  dollar-twenty  a  day, 
and  not  any  of  us  done  that.  I  kept  trying  to 
think  how  to  get  started. 

At  the  end  of  one  car  line  I  got  off  and 
walked  over  to  the  river.  There  was  beautiful 
houses  there — more  beautiful  than  I  had  ever 
seen,  even  in  the  pictures.  I  thought  they 
must  have  awful  big  families,  they  had  so 
many  up-stairs  rooms.  The  grass  looked 
combed  and  fluffed,  much  better  than  the  babies' 
hair  around  the  factory.  Somebody  give  an 
awful  lot  of  time  to  the  flowers,  and  the  river 
showed  through  the  bushes.  I  liked  the  nice 
curtains,  and  when  automobiles  went  by  I  liked 
to  look  at  the  ladies,  they  seemed  so  clean  and 
tended.     But  I  wondered  why. 

I  stood  looking  through  the  iron  fence  of  a 
great  big  house  when  a  policeman  come  along. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     111 

I  says  to  him,  before  he  could  get  passed,  "I 
was  wishing  I  knew  the  names  of  the  folks  that 
live  in  there." 

He  stopped  like  a  wall  that  knew  how  to 
walk.  "Well,  missy,"  says  he,  "and  was  ye 
thinkin'  of  buyin'  it  in?" 

"No,"  I  says,  "not  with  notliin'  but  you  to 
watch  it."  And  then  I  walked  on  fast,  and 
felt  sick,  sick  at  myself.  Not  one  of  them 
tended  ladies  in  the  automobiles  would  have 
spoke  like  that.  And  Mr.  Ember  would  have 
hated  me  if  he'd  heard  me  say  it.  How  did 
folks  ever  get  over  being  smart  and  quick, 
and  be  just  regular? 

After  a  while,  I  come  past  a  big  church,  and 
I  went  in.  I  never  liked  church,  because  the 
minister  had  always  kept  at  me  to  join  and  I 
didn't  think  I  was  good  enough.  But  I  knew 
nobody  would  ever  ask  me  to  join  here.  There 
was  one  reason,  though,  why  I  liked  it,  even 
home — everybody  acted  nice,  and  like  there 
was  company.  Once  I  said  that,  home,  to  the 
table,  when  everybody  was  jawing,  "Let's  act 
like  we  was  in  church,"  I  said.    But  it  made 


112    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Father  mad,  and  he  couldn't  understand  that  I 
hadn't  meant  the  being  good  part  at  all.  I  only- 
meant  the  acting  nice  part. 

In  the  church  it  was  like  that,  just  as  if 
everybody  had  company  and  was  on  their  good 
behavior.  They  set  me  in  the  gallery,  and  I 
could  see  the  whole  crowd.  The  hats  was 
grand.  But  the  nicest  was  the  colors  in  the 
dresses  and  the  windows  and  the  flowers.  It 
was  funny,  but  something  in  them  made  me 
hurt.  And  when  the  music  burst  out  sudden, 
it  hurt  me  so  that  I  dropped  my  bag  of  rolls 
so*s  to  get  down  and  pick  them  up,  and  get  my 
mind  off  my  throat.  I  was  thinking  about  it 
afterward,  and  it  was  the  first  music  I'd  ever 
heard  except  our  reed  organ  in  church,  and 
Lena  Curtsy's  piano,  and  the  movies,  and  the 
circus  band.  And  even  the  circus  band  had 
hurt  my  throat,  too. 

I  never  knew  a  word  the  man  said,  I  mean 
the  minister.  He  didn't  talk  anyhow — he  just 
kept  on  about  something,  as  if  he  was  trying 
to  make  somebody  mean  something  they  didn't 
mean.     But  I  liked  being  there.     Everybody 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     113 

seemed  like  they  ought  to  seem.  I  wondered 
if  they  was.  I  couldn't  seem  to  see  through, 
like  I  could  with  the  folks  in  the  street-car.  It 
didn't  seem  possible  that  those  folks  down 
there  ever  yipped  out  about  anything  to  each 
other,  and,  anyway,  what  could  they  have  to 
yip  out  about?  They  were  all  clean  and 
tended,  too.  Afterward  I  stood  in  the  door 
and  watched  them  pour  out,  talking  fast,  and 
drive  off.  I  liked  to  see  them  close  to,  and 
hear  the  way  they  said  their  words.  It  made 
a  real  nice  morning,  but  I  never  heard  a  word 
about  God. 

I  et  my  rolls  in  the  park,  and  I  stayed  there 
a  good  while.  The  sun  or  the  green  or  some- 
thing made  me  feel  good.  I  tried  to  look  at 
the  animals,  but  I  hated  it  in  the  smelly  places, 
with  the  poor  live  things  in  cages.  When  they 
tore  around  and  couldn't  sit  still  in  any  one 
place,  I  thought  it  was  just  like  Mother  and 
Father  and  the  boys  and  Mis'  Bingy,  they  all 
had  to  stay  in  a  little  place  they  didn't  like, 
doing  what  they  didn't  want  to  do.  I  didn't 
blame  any  of  them  for  being  ugly.     The  more 


114    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  looked  at  the  animals,  the  better  I  under- 
stood. Then  I  thought  about  Keddie  Bingy — 
and  he  didn't  have  only  that  little  place  to  stay, 
with  the  bed  in  the  kitchen,  and  he  hated  being 
a  stone  mason,  I'd  heard  him  tell  Father  that. 
I  didn't  know  but  I  could  understand  why  he 
got  drunk.  Jhen  there  was  Joe,  that  had  the 
Dew  Drop  Inn,  and  he  had  to  stay  there  in  that 
place,  and  he  couldn't  get  out;  and,  anyway, 
the  United  States  let  him ;  and  I  begun  to  see 
how  it  was  that  Joe  got  Keddie  drunk  all  the 
time.  So  I  was  glad  I  went  to  see  the  animals, 
even  if  I  couldn't  stay  on  account  of  it  making 
me  sick. 

Outside  the  park  was  the  big  hotels.  I  won- 
dered if  I  could  walk  inside  and  look  at  them, 
but  when  I  got  to  the  steps,  I  was  afraid.  Then 
I  see  a  big  red  house  behind  more  iron  fence, 
with  an  American  flag  overhead,  and  I  asked 
a  little  boy  with  some  papers  if  that  was  where 
the  mayor  lived. 

"Naw,"  says  he.  "Private  party.  I  t'ought 
youse  was  their  chum,  the  way  youse  was  rub- 
berin'.'* 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     115 

I  give  him  a  penny  for  a  paper  and  didn't 
say  anything.  And  then  I  felt  better  about 
the  way  I'd  answered  the  policeman.  It  ain't 
so  hard  to  act  nice  if  you  can  only  think  in 
time. 

I  walked  all  the  way  home.  I  went  in  every 
church  I  come  to,  because  it  was  some  place  to 
go  in.  If  I'd  been  shot  out  of  a  gun  I  couldn't 
have  told  'em  apart,  and  I  wondered  how  they 
could  tell  themselves.  And  everywhere  I  went, 
there  wasn't  a  soul  to  speak  to.  I  tried  to 
imagine  what  if  Mis'  Bingy  and  the  baby 
wasn't  back  there  in  the  room,  and  there  was 
nobody  to  speak  to  when  I  got  back.  It  felt 
funny,  like  once  when  I  got  too  far  from  shore 
in  the  pond,  home.  I  couldn't  help  thinking 
about  Mr.  Carney  saying :  "You  must  let  me 
help  you  to  keep  from  being  too  lonesome." 
And  if  he'd  come  along  just  then  with  his 
shiny  car,  I  don't  know  but  I'd  have  got  in. 

It  was  the  day  after  that  that  he  come  to  the 
factory  and  asked  for  me.  I  didn't  think  he'd 
do  that,  but  I  guess  he  didn't  care  what  he  done. 
The  foreman  called  me  out,  and  when  I  got 


116    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

into  his  office  there  was  Mr.  Arthur,  and  he  left 
me  there  with  him.  Mr.  Arthur's  hat  was  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  and  his  Hght  hair  was 
fiat  down  on  his  forehead,  and  his  light-colored 
eyes  and  eyebrows  made  me  want  to  get  away 
from  him,  even  if  he  was  Mr.  Ember's  friend. 

"Child,"  he  says  to  me,  "why  are  you  trying 
to  avoid  me?  I've  found  a  place  for  you 
where  you  can  go  and  learn  as  much  as  you 
want.  I've  been  waiting  to  tell  you  about  it. 
Don't  you  trust  me  ?"  he  says. 

I  says,  "I'd  trust  any  friend  of  Mr.  Em- 
ber's." 

"Well,"  he  says,  "anyhow,  trust  me.  I'll  call 
here  for  you  to-night,  and  you  let  me  tell  you 
what  I've  got  planned  for  you." 

"I'm  going  to  meet  with  some  of  the  girls  to- 
night, Mr.  Carney,"  I  says. 

"Cut  that  out,"  he  says.     "Come  with  me." 

I  laughed  at  that.  "You  act  like  your  way 
was  the  way  things  are,"  I  says. 

"I  wish  it  were,"  he  says,  "I  wish  it  were." 

"Listen,  Mr.  Carney,"  I  says.  "I've  got  a 
good  job,  and  I  like  the  girls.     It's  a  dirty,  dis- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     117 

agreeable  place  to  work,  and  we'd  ought  to 
have  a  good  many  things  we  haven't  got,"  I 
says  to  him,  "but  I  guess  Til  stick  it  out  for  a 
while.     I  couldn't  come  to-night,  anyway." 

"I'll  wait  for  you  to-morrow  night,  then," 
he  says.  "We'll  have  a  little  dinner  some- 
where, and  a  run  in  the  car — " 

It  was  getting  awful  hard  to  remember  to 
act  nice,  and  I  spilled  over. 

"You  got  the  ways  of  a  hitching-post,"  I 
says ;  "but  you  ain't  got  the  tie-strap."  And  I 
walked  out  and  left  him  there. 

Two  nights  he  run  his  car  down  to  the  door 
where  he'd  found  I  come  out.  Once  I  pre- 
tended not  to  see  him,  and  run  and  caught  a 
street-car.  Once  he  jumped  out  and  walked 
along  beside  me,  and  the  girls  fell  back.  I  told 
him  Mis'  Bingy  and  I  were  going  to  have  a 
banquet  of  wieners,  fried  on  the  gas-jet,  and  I 
couldn't  come.  He  put  a  note  in  my  hand,  he 
never  seemed  to  care  what  anybody  thought,  I 
noticed  that  about  him. 

Mis'  Bingy  and  I  read  the  note,  while  the 
wieners  were  irying. 


1 18    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"Don't  keep  me  waiting,"  it  said.  "I  want 
to  see  you  the  glorious  creature  you  could  be  if 
you  had  the  training  you  say  you  want.  Music, 
riding,  whatever  you  ask  for,  you  shall  have  it 
all,  on  my  honor.  Don't  I  deserve  a  little  more 
confidence  from  you  ?  A.  C." 

Mis'  Bingy  rocked  back  and  forth  on  the 
bed. 

"Cossy  Wakely,"  she  said,  "it's  my  fault, 
it's  my  fault.  I  brung  you.  Let's  us  go  back, 
Cossy,  right  off.     Let's  us  go  back." 

"Oh,  pshaw,  Mis'  Bingy!"  I  says,  "I  guess 
he  means  it  right.     We're  just — ^vulgar." 

"Oh,  what  a  world,"  says  Mis'  Bingy. 
"Ain't  there  no  place  women  can  get  shed  of 
men,  with  their  drunkenness  and  their  devil- 
ment?" 

I  couldiv't  feel  that  way  a  bit.  "I  don't  want 
to,"  I  says.  "I  want  to  find  the  other  kind  of 
men.     There  is  them!" 

We  had  a  nice  supper,  and  then  I  wrote  in 
this  book.  It  was  beginning  to  be  so  I  could 
hardly  wait  to  get  at  it.  I  wondered  if  that 
was  the  way  Mr.  Ember  felt  about  his  work. 
Then  I  thought  about  the  factory,  and  remem- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     119 

bered  that  that  was  work,  too.  It  didn't  seem 
as  if  they  ought  to  have  the  same  name. 

Next  morning  Rose  went  up  the  stairs  with 
me. 

"You  know  you'll  either  have  to  quit  your 
job  or  else  give  in,  don't  you?"  she  says. 

I  looked  at  her. 

"Are  you  sure?"  I  says,  "I  thought  maybe 
my  being  afraid  of  him  was  just  being — vul- 
gar.'' 

"You  baby,"  she  says.  "It  ain't  your  fault. 
Everybody  understands.  We  always  tell  the 
new  pretty  ones.     But  he  brought  you  here — " 

I  tried  to  think  what  to  do,  all  that  day,  while 
I  fed  the  press.  I  could  think  well  enough — 
the  work  was  just  one  motion,  one  motion,  one 
motion,  and  I  didn't  have  to  think  about  that. 
But  I  knew  in  a  little  while  the  rest  of  my  head 
wouldn't  think  while  I  worked,  and  that  I 
should  just  stand  there  with  the  smell  of  the 
oil  and  the  ink  and  the  gas  and  the  paper  dust, 
and  the  noise.  I  wondered  what  we  was  all 
doing  it  for,  just  to  earn  money  to  keep  breath- 
ing, and  to  supply  Mr.  Arthur  Carney  with 


120    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

money  for  "little  dinners  somewhere,"  and  the 
shiny  car.  It  didn't  seem  worth  while,  not  for 
any  of  us. 

At  noon  Rose  and  I  walked  again,  she 
wanted  to  tell  me  about  a  meeting  for  that 
night.  They'd  heard  that  morning  from  Mr. 
Carney.  He  wouldn't  give  in  on  one  of  the 
things,  except  to  promise  to  unlock  the  doors 
while  we  worked.  "But  he's  promised  that 
before,"  Rose  says.  "It  don't  last.  We're 
going  to  take  the  vote  to-night  on  walking  out." 

"What!"  says  Sergeant  Ebbit,  when  we 
come  by.     "Ain't  you  two  struck  yet?" 

"Don't  you  want  to  be?"  says  Rose,  pretend- 
ing to  hit  at  him.  I  don't  know  how  any  of  us 
can  act  nice,  with  everybody  joshing  us  so  free. 

I  promised  to  go  to  the  meeting,  and  that 
meant  that  I  couldn't  go  home  to  supper,  be- 
cause it  was  so  far  to  walk  back.  And  when 
I  come  out  the  door,  there  was  Mr.  Carney's 
car,  and  him  walking  toward  me.  I  never 
stopped  a  minute.  I  walked  straight  through 
the  girls  and  got  into  his  car.  He  jumped  in 
after  me  and  banged  the  door.     I  heard  the 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     121 

girls  titter.  "You  glorious  thing,"  I  heard 
him  say ;  and  I  says,  low : 

"Fve  got  one  errand,  though.  Will  you 
take  me  there?" 

"Anywhere  under  heaven,"  he  says. 


CHAPTER   VII 

I  SHOWED  Mr.  Carney  which  way.  We 
went  past  the  girls,  and  round  the  corner, 
and  straight  down  the  narrow  street  where  we 
always  walked  eating  our  lunch.  I  motioned 
where  to  stop.  I  jumped  out.  Sergeant  Eb- 
bit  was  alone  just  inside  the  door  of  the  police 
station. 

"Hello,  Beauty,"  he  says;  "what  can  I  do 
for  you?'* 

I  says,  "I  want  you  to  come  out  here  and 
arrest  a  fresh  young  guy  with  a  car,  that's 
been  bothering  me." 

He  jumped  up  and  followed.  He  was  new 
there,  as  Rose  had  said,  and  then  he  kind  of 
liked  me,  too.  I'd  known  that  several  days, 
and  I  was  depending  on  it  now.  He  come 
hurrying,  like  I  thought  he  would,  and  he  says, 
"I  know  them  fool  kids,  and  I'll  learn  'em,  if 
122 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     123 

you  say  so."  And  before  he  see  Mr.  Carney 
he  blew  his  whistle. 

"That's  him,"  I  says,  pointing  to  the  little 
shiny  car. 

It  makes  me  laugh  now  to  remember  the 
sergeant's  face.  But  another  policeman  was 
coming,  running.  And  folks  stopped  and 
stared.  And  I  slipped  out  the  station  door 
quick,  and  turned  the  comer  and  dodged 
straight  across  the  factory  yard  and  took  to 
my  heels. 

It  was  after  six  o'clock,  so  the  streets  were 
alive.  I  walked  along,  never  noticing  where  I 
was  going.  I  looked  down  the  street.  As  far 
as  I  could  see  there  went  the  heads,  men  and 
women,  bobbing  along  home.  Half  of  them, 
I  thought,  had  just  the  same  kind  of  box  to 
live  in  that  Mis'  Bingy  and  I  had.  Yet  there 
they  was,  going  to  work  every  day  by  clock- 
work, always  thinking  something  good  was 
going  to  come  of  it.  I  tramped  along  with 
them.  There  was  something  good  in  the  way 
our  feet  all  come  down  on  the  walk  together. 
In  spite  of  everything,  I  f^lt  fine.     But  I  guess 


124    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

that  was  because  I  was  young  and  well.  Some 
of  them  that  passed  me,  their  heads  didn't  stay 
up  and  their  feet  dragged.  And  they  didn't 
seem  to  know  each  other  was  there.  If  only 
they  could  have  felt  the  good  feeling  of  march- 
ing together,  it  seemed  to  me  they'd  be  less 
tired. 

"TheyVe  got  to  find  out  different,"  I 
thought.     "How  can  they?" 

The  most  of  them  crossed  east  on  Broadway 
and  under  a  covered  place  with  bells  clanging. 
I  saw  the  sign  "Brooklyn  Bridge,"  so  I  went 
up  the  steps  and  out  on  the  bridge,  and  I  walked 
clear  across  it  and  back  again.  I'll  never  for- 
get that  walk.  I  was  looking  at  the  others 
and  looking  at  them — ^the  folks  that  was  work- 
ers, like  me.  I  seemed  to  know  something 
about  them  they  didn't  know.  It  seemed  as  if 
I  had  to  do  something. 

A  bunch  of  little  young  girls  passed  me,  all 
laughing.  They  seemed  years  younger  than  I 
was.  I  thought  of  them — of  the  day  they'd 
had  in  the  factory — bad  air,  noise,  work  that 
was  dead  before  it  was  bom,  and  maybe  a 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     125 

home  where  there  was  rows,  or  maybe  just  no- 
body at  all ;  and  somebody  like  Arthur  Carney 
coming  to  help  them  be  a  little  less  lonesome. 
And  then  I  faced  it  honest :  Suppose  he  hadn't 
had  flat  hair  and  light  eyes.  Suppose  he  had 
looked  different,  so  that  I  would  have  wanted 
to  go  to  dinner  with  him  ? 

I  begun  to  walk  fast,  back  to  town.  Across 
the  bridge  I  went  in  a  little  down-stairs  place 
to  get  something  to  eat.  I  was  thinking  so 
hard  I  never  knew  I'd  ordered  a  quarter's 
worth  till  I  got  the  bill.  But  I  didn't  care 
much.  Everything  else  seemed  all  of  a  sudden 
to  matter  so  much  more. 

That  night,  when  I  walked  into  the  meeting, 
they  all  stared.  I  s'pose  the  word  had  got 
round  that  I'd  gone  with  him.  I  whispered  to 
Rose  that  I  wanted  to  say  something,  and  she 
give  me  a  chance  right  away.  When  I  got  up 
on  the  platform  and  faced  'em,  I  wasn't  afraid. 
I  was  glad. 

I  told  them  that  just  because  I  had  got  to 
leave,  I  didn't  want  them  to  think  I  was  going 
to    forget.     And   that   they   mustn't    forget, 


126    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

either.  "It  ain't  caught  me  yet,"  I  told  'em. 
"I'm  new  and  from  the  country,  and  I  can  see 
what  it  is  that  you're  getting,  hke  you  can't  see. 
And  what  I  say  is  this:  Quit  your  hoping. 
Just  know  that  imtil  we  get  together  ourselves, 
nothing  will  come  out  of  the  factory  except 
what  we're  getting  now.  Quit  your  hoping, 
and  help.     That's  my  last  word." 

And  yet  I  guess  you  can't  blame  anybody  for 
being  afraid  of  being  hungry.  I'd  never  been 
hungry  yet,  so  I  was  brave. 

I  didn't  tell  Mis'  Bingy  that  night  that  I'd 
lost  my  job.  I  didn't  tell  her  till  next  morn- 
ing when  she  woke  up,  scared  that  I  was  late. 
We  went  out  in  the  park  with  the  baby. 

"We'll  be  all  right,  Mis'  Bingy,"  I  says, 
"don't  you  worry." 

I  was  sitting  on  the  grass.  And  when  I 
spoke  so,  I  happened  to  see  my  foot  sticking 
from  under  my  skirt.  The  whole  half  of  my 
shoe  sole  had  come  off,  and  was  gone,  and  the 
nails  was  all  showing.  Ten  days'  rent  it  would 
take  to  buy  me  another  pair. 

Just  now  I  tore  out  thirty  pages  of  this 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     127 

book.  And  just  now  I  read  them  over.  They 
made  me  sick  to  read  them,  not  because  of  what 
was  there,  but  because  of  what  wasn't  there. 
It  was  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again  all 
that  time.  Hat  factory,  ribbon  factory,  braid 
factory,  silk  factory,  and  ten  weeks  rolling 
stogies.  Some  places  the  girls  cared,  and  was 
trying  to  make  others  care  to  get  things  better. 
In  others  it  was  get  what  you  could,  look  your 
best,  and  marry  the  first  man  that  asked  you. 

Every  place  I  went,  I  begun  asking  about 
the  things  that  Rose  had  taught  me  about — 
fines,  and  dockings,  and  fire  safety,  and  the 
rest.  Then  I  talked  to  the  girls.  That  was 
why  I  didn't  "last." 

"You'll  get  used  to  things  one  of  these 
days,"  says  a  forelady  to  me. 

"That's  what  I'm  afraid  of,"  I  told  her. 

But  the  worst  was,  there  wasn't  any  fun. 
There  wasn't  anything  to  go  to,  and,  anyhow, 
I  couldn't  afford  the  car- fare  back  in  the  eve- 
ning. 

Mis'  Bingy  had  found  a  place  where  she 
could  leave  the  baby  a  little  while  every  day, 


128    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

and  she  done  some  cleaning.  We  moved  out 
of  our  first  room  to  one  farther  up  that  didn't 
cost  so  high.  I  got  so  I  begun  to  think  ahead, 
nights. 

Then  one  night  when  I  come  in,  the  lady  we 
rented  of  says  a  lady  had  been  there  to  see  me; 
"A  lady,"  she  says,  "that  come  in  a  automobile 
and  says  her  words  as  careful  as  if  she  was 
a-singin'  in  the  church.  She's  a-comin'  back 
again." 

And  when  she  come,  she  stood  by  the  table 
and  says  : 

"Miss  Wakely,  I  am  Mis'  Arthur  Carney." 

"My  land!"  I  says.  It  had  never  entered 
my  head  that  he  might  have  a  wife  on  top  of 
everything  else. 

"I  have  been  hearing,"  she  says,  "of  what 
you  did  some  time  ago.  I  mean  about — Mr. 
Carney.  I  have  come  to  find  you,  because  it 
seemed  to  me  that  you  must  be  a  remarkable 
girl." 

"Oh,  Mis'  Carney,"  I  says,  "nobody  needs 
to  be  remarkable  to  think  of  getting  him  ar- 
rested." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    129 

And  then  I  remembered  something:  "Yes, 
sir!"  I  says,  "it  was  you!  It  was  you  that 
was  in  the  pinkish  dress  in  Mr.  Ember's  house 
that  day!'' 

And  I  told  her  what  she  had  been  saying 
when  she  passed  the  door.  But  all  I  was  think- 
ing was — she  knew;  him.  She  knew  Mr. 
Ember,  too! 

She  talked  to  me  a  long  time.  She  didn't  ask 
me  many  questions — and  I  didn't  tell  her  much 
about  me,  but  still  in  a  little  while  we  felt  real 
acquainted.    And  pretty  soon  she  says : 

"I  came  really,  you  know,  to  see  whether 
you  had  found  another  position — after  you  left 
that  one.  I've  had  a  good  deal  of  a  time  find- 
ing you  out.  What  have  you  done  since? 
What  are  you  doing  now  ?" 

I  told  her  some  of  it. 

"And  what  do  you  want  to  do?"  she  says 
then. 

I  don't  know  what  give  me  the  courage. 
It  was  just  like  something  in  me  said :  "Tell 
her.    Tell  her.    Tell  her."    And  I  said  it. 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "I'd  work  my  head  off  if  I 


130    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

could  go  somewheres  to  school.  But  I  don't 
want  to  know  just  school  things.  I  want  to 
know  more  than  them.    .    .    ." 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  ?"  she  says. 

It  was  funny  how  easy  it  was  to  talk  to  her. 
Father  or  Mother  or  Luke  or  Mis'  Bingy,  that 
I'd  known  all  my  life,  I  couldn't  have  explained 
things  to  like  I  could  to  her.  But  I  think  that 
was  part  because  she  didn't  need  everything 
all  said  out  in  sentences,  and  then  it  was  part 
because  I  knew  she  wouldn't  make  a  fuss  at 
me  when  I  got  through. 

When  she  went  away:  "Fm  going  to  look 
around  a  little,"  she  says,  "I'll  come  back  in  a 
few  days." 

"But,  oh,"  I  says,  "you  know,  there's  Mis' 
Bingy  and  the  baby.  I  couldn't  do  anything 
that'd  take  me  away  from  her.  I  don't  know 
why  you  bother  with  me  anyway,"  I  says. 

She  had  the  loveliest  dignified  way.  "We 
owe  you  something,  my  husband  and  I,"  she 
says. 

But  of  course  I  knew  that  that  was  just  her 
manner  of  speaking,   and  that  her  husband 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     131 

didn't  know  a  thing  about  what  she  was  doing, 
and  that  probably  it  was  one  of  those  speeches 
that  everybody  keeps  making,  Hke  when  Mis' 
Bingy  talked,  in  the  depot,  of  taking  her  baby 
away  from  "a  father's  care." 

She  went  off  in  her  automobile,  and  I  stood 
on  the  step  looking  after  her.  The  very  thought 
that  there  could  be  anybody  in  the  world  like 
her,  that  would  do  what  she'd  done,  made  me 
feel  like  I  understood  the  earth.  I  told  Mis' 
Bingy,  and  she  sat  a  long  time  looking  out  the 
window  with  her  mouth  open. 

"If  Keddie  had  done  that,"  she  says,  "I  bet 
a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea,  I'd  blame  the  girl." 

I'd  have  thought  everybody  would.  We 
talked  it  over. 

"Mis'  Bingy,"  I  says,  "maybe  they's  ways  to 
be  decent  we  don't  even  know  about." 

She  kep'  her  mouth  open.  "Then  who's  to 
blame  if  we  don't  act  up  to  'em,  I  donno,"  she 
says,  after  a  while. 

"I  donno,  too,"  I  says.  "It  must  be  some- 
body, though." 

And  we  both  thought  it  must  be. 


132    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Mis'  Bingy 
and  I  done  what  we'd  been  going  to  do  for  a 
long  time.  We  walked  up  to  the  park,  and 
inside  the  big  building  where  the  pictures  are. 
Mis'  Bingy  set  on  a  bench  and  fed  the  baby, 
while  I  wandered  round. 

I  guess  you're  supposed  to  feel  nice  and  real 
awed  when  you  first  go  to  that  big  place.  I 
guess  you're  supposed  to  be  glad  you  live  in  a 
city  where  they're  free  to  you.  I  thought  I 
was  going  to  have  a  good  time.  But  instead 
of  that  I  kept  getting  madder  and  madder. 
Once  I  begun  to  talk  out  loud,  and  I  was  afraid 
they'd  put  me  out.  It  was  when  I  come  to  a 
big  room  full  of  statues,  with  one  big  white 
one  that  said  under  it  "Apollo."  I'd  never 
heard  the  name.     I  says  to  the  man  in  the  hall : 

"Can  you  tell  me  who  that  Apollo  was — and 
why  he's  stuck  up  here  ?'* 

"Catalogues  twenty-five  cents  each,  at  the 
door,"  says  the  man. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "I  ain't  got  the  quarter  to 
spare.     But  I  thought  mebbe  you  knew." 

"He  was  the  Greek  god  of  beauty  and  song," 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    133 

he  says,  stiff.  And  the  next  thing  I  knew  I 
was  standing  there  in  front  of  the  Greek  god 
talking  out  loud.    And  I  says : 

**rd  like  to  twist  the  nose  off  your  face,  just 
because  I've  never  heard  of  you  before — ^nor 
you — nor  you — nor  you — ^nor  you.  Why  ain't 
I  never  heard  of  you?" 

I  run  for  Mis'  Bingy. 

"Mis'  Bingy,"  I  says,  "are  you  ready  to  go?" 

She  followed  me  without  a  word.  Out  on 
the  steps  she  says,  shaking : 

"Which  was  it — Keddie  or  Carney?" 

"It  was  neither,"  I  says,  "it  was  that  smart 
white  god  in  there,  and  all  the  rest  of  'em. 
Mis'  Bingy!  Folks  know  about  'em.  They 
know  when  they  go  there,  and  they  know  about 
pictures.  I  heard  'em  talking.  What's  the 
reason  we  don't  know  ?" 

"Go  on !"  says  Mis'  Bingy.  "We  ain't  the 
kind  of  folks  them  things  are  calculated  for." 

"It's  a  lie!"  I  says.  "It's  a  lie!  I  could 
almost  like  'em  now — only  I  got  so  mad." 

I  set  down  on  a  bench  in  the  park,  and 
cried.     And  I  didn't  care  who  heard  me. 


134    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Mis*  Bingy  stood  up,  waiting  for  me,  hush- 
ing the  baby  back  and  forth  on  her  hip. 

"I  use*  to  feel  Hke  that  when  I  was  a  girl," 
she  says.  "You'll  get  over  it."  She  kept  say- 
ing that,  several  times.  "You'll  get  over  it, 
Cossy,"  as  if  she  thought  it  was  some  comfort. 

"That's  what  I'm  afraid  of,"  I  says,  after  a 
while. 

We  transferred  at  Eighth  Street  on  the 
way  down,  because  there  was  something  else 
I'd  heard  about  and  I  hadn't  ever  seen  yet. 
We  walked  east  through  the  square,  under  the 
arch,  and  I  asked  a  policeman  for  what  I  was 
looking  for,  and  he  showed  me:  The  top 
story  where  the  fire  had  been  in  a  factory.  The 
girls  had  told  me  about  it,  and  I  told  Mis' 
Bingy,  and  we  stood  and  looked.  That  was 
where  they  had  jumped  from.  That  was 
where  they  had  hit  the  sidewalk,  a  hundred 
and  eighteen  of  them,  smashed  or  burned  to 
death. 

"It  might  have  been  you,  Cossy,"  Mis'  Bingy 
says,  staring  up  and  swinging  the  baby. 

"It  zvas  me,"  I  says.     "I  felt  like  it  was  me 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     135 

when  I  heard  it — and  I  feel  like  it  was  me 
now." 

But  I  didn't  want  to  cry  for  that.  While  I 
looked  I  got  still  inside,  still  and  sick,  and  sure. 
I  guess  I  felt  like  I  was  every  factory  girl  in 
in  New  York.  The  hundred  and  eighteen 
wasn't  the  worst  off — I  knew:  that  now.  I 
wondered  how  many  of  them  some  Carney 
had  chased,  to  "help  them  be  a  little  less  lone- 
some." I  wondered  how  many  of  them  could 
talk  English.  I  wondered  how  many  of  them 
ever  had  it  in  their  heads  for  a  minute  that 
there  was  anything  else  for  them  only  just  what 
they  had.  Then  I  thought  about  that  Greek 
god  of  beauty  and  song.  And  them  hundred 
and  eighteen  and  most  of  the  other  girls  and 
Mis'  Bingy  and  me  never  even  knew  there  was 
such  a  guy. 

Two  days  later  Mis'  Carney  come  back. 
The  landlady  had  a  book  agent,  entertaining 
him  in  the  parlor,  so  I  had  to  take  her  right  up 
to  our  room.  It  was  nice  and  clean,  and  Mis' 
Bingy  always  combed  her  hair  and  changed 
her  dress  after  dinner,  just  like  she  had  at 


136    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

home  afternoons,  when  she'd  got  the  dishes 
washed  up.  She  was  making  lace  by  the  win- 
dow, and  the  baby  was  on  the  floor.  It  was 
late,  and  we'd  got  a  whole  pie  tin  of  wieners 
sizzling  over  the  gas-jet. 

"Mis'  Carney^  you  meet  Mis*  Bingy,"  I 
says.  But  Mis'  Carney  hardly  looked  at  her. 
She  bent  right  over  the  pillow  that  Mis'  Bingy's 
work  was  on. 

"Do  you  mean,"  Mis'  Carney  said,  "that  you 
are  actually  making  the  lace?  Here  in  New 
York?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  Mis'  Bingy  says.  "Ma 
taught  me — in  the  old  country." 

"Have  you  any  of  it  made?"  Mis'  Carney 
says. 

Mis'  Bingy  opened  the  washstand  drawer 
and  took  out  what  she  had,  tied  up  in  a  pillow 
case.  Mis'  Carney  set  on  the  bed  and  took  it 
in  her  hands.  After  a  long  time  she  looked  up 
at  me,  and  her  face  was  lovely. 

"Miss  Wakely,"  she  says,  "I  came  to  tell  you 
what  I  have  for  you  to  do — and  I  was  a  good 
deal  bothered — about  your  friend.  Mis'  Bingy. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     137 

But  it  seems  to  me  that  she  can  earn  consider- 
ably more  than  you  can — with  her  lace.  I 
paid  six  dollars  a  yard  for  lace  like  this  not  a 
fortnight  ago." 

Then  she  turned  to  me.  "YouVe  going  to  a 
school  right  here  in  town,"  she  said;  'T  have 
arranged  everything.  And  now  Mis'  Bingy 
is  going  to  find  a  larger  room  and  make  her 
lace." 

The  wieners  had  burned  black  before  any  of 
us  noticed.  If  ever  you  seen  the  sky  open 
back,  I  guess  you  know. 

Mis'  Carney  asked  me  to  spend  Friday  to 
Monday  with  her,  and  then  she  would  take  me 
over  to  the  school. 

"Have  I  got  to  see  your  husband  ?"  I  says  to 
her,  direct. 

Her  husband  was  in  Europe,  so  that  was 
how  she  could  ask  me.  And  Friday  afternoon 
she  come  for  me. 

"We  can  take  your  trunk  in  the  car,  if  it's  a 
small  one,"  she  says. 

"I  ain't  even  got  a  satchel,"  I  told  her.  "My 
other  dress  and  things  are  in  this  here." 


138    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Mis'  Bingy  was  hanging  over  the  bannister 
post,  and  the  landlady  with  her. 

''Don't  you  go  and  forget  me,  Cossy,"  says 
Mis'  Bingy,  crying. 

The  landlady  used  her  face  all  the  time  like 
a  strong  light  was  in  her  eyes. 

"She'll  forget  you,  all  right,"  she  says.  "I 
got  two  daughters  somewheres  that  I  never 
hear  a  word  out  of.  Best  say  good-by  and 
leave  it  go  at  that." 

I  always  wanted  everybody  to  tell  the  truth, 
but  that  woman  sort  of  undressed  it,  and  then 
told  it.  And  it  made  a  little  hush,  there  in 
the  hall. 

Mis'  Carney's  house  was  big  and  still.  She 
took  me  to  a  bedroom  at  the  back,  looking  out 
on  a  square  garden.  The  furniture  was  white, 
with  rose-buds  on,  and  there  were  gray  and 
pink  rugs  on  the  floor.  The  light  colored  rugs 
seemed  so  wonderful — ^just  as  if  it  didn't  mat- 
ter if  they  did  get  soiled,  no  more  than  towels. 
Nor  not  so  much  so.  On  the  wall  was  a 
little  picture  of  a  boat  with  a  bright-colored 
sail,  on  a  real  blue  sky.    The  minute  I  see  it, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     139 

the  whole  thing  kind  of  come  over  me.    And 
I  begun  to  cry. 

"Oh,  Mis'  Carney,"  I  says,  "we  got  a  pic- 
ture in  the  parlor,  home.  But  it  don't  look  like 
that." 

"Is  that  what  you  are  crying  for?"  she 
asked. 

"No,"  I  says,  "I  don't  think  so.  I  was  think- 
ing about  the  bed.  Mother  and  I  looked  at 
one  in  a  show-window,  once." 

I  remembered  how  Mother  had  stood  and 
looked  at  it,  all  made  up  clean  and  pretty,  even 
after  I  was  tired  and  wanted  to  go  on. 

Saturday  morning  we  went  shopping.  I'd 
never  been  down-town  before  when  I  wasn't 
walking  fast  to  get  somewheres.  This  was  the 
first  time  I  had  ever  looked.  Everywhere  there 
were  people,  hurrying  and  thinking. 
*  "Look  in  this  window,  Cosma,"  Mis'  Car- 
ney said  as  we  went  in  a  store.  "How  would 
you  like  that  shade?" 

But  the  man  that  was  fixing  the  things 
looked  like  a  man  that  sold  mackintoshes  at 
the  county  fair,  and  I  watched  him. 


140    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"You  ought  to  have  a  longish  coat,"  she 
says,  "you're  so  tall." 

Just  then  I  saw  a  woman  with  gray  hair, 
and  I  stood  staring  at  her,  wondering  if  there 
was  anybody's  mother  that  looked  as  grand 
as  her. 

"Cosma,"  Mis'  Carney  said,  "look  at  the 
things,  please.    Never  mind  the  people." 

"Never  mind  the  people."  I  knew  then  that 
they  were  all  I  cared  about.  It  wasn't  so  much 
the  folks  shopping  that  I  saw — it  was  the 
girls,  the  whole  army  of  girls  that  was  waiting 
on  them.  When  you  get  to  look  at  the  shops 
that  way,  then  you  know  more  about  them 
than  you  did  before.  But  the  folks  on  the 
sidewalks  kind  of  got  me  too.  Out  in  the 
car  I  says  to  Mis'  Carney  : 

"I  know !  It  ain't  just  school  or  clothes  or 
you  that  makes  me  feel  good.  It's  something 
else.  It's  because  I  ain't  worrying  over  the 
rent!" 

I  saw  the  folks  on  the  sidewalks,  all  hurry- 
ing and  thinking.  I  knew  them  all  now.  Half 
of  them  were  worrying  just  the  way  I  had  been, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    141 

just  the  way  Rose  was,  just  the  way  all  the 
girls  did.  I  felt  bad  for  them.  I  wanted  to 
take  them  all  off  with  me,  to  school  or  some- 
wheres. 

Then  come  the  evening  I'll  never  forget. 
Mis'  Carney  and  I  had  dinner  by  ourselves  in 
a  little  glass  room  just  off  the  big  dining-room; 
and  afterward  we  went  into  the  library.  She 
was  showing  me  some  books,  when  a  bell  rung, 
somewheres  off  in  the  house,  and  a  maid  come 
with  a  card. 

"Show  him  to  the  drawing-room,"  Mis' 
Carney  said,  and  gave  me  a  lot  more  books  and 
left  me.  And  then  I  heard  his  voice  in  the 
next  room  where  she'd  gone.  I  knew — the 
minute  I  heard  him  speak  I  knew.  I  dropped 
my  books  and  run  to  the  curtains  and  stood 
where  I  could  see. 

And  Mr.  Ember  was  standing  by  the  table, 
with  his  face  turned  toward  me,  looking  just 
like  I'd  seen  him  last,  there  in  Twiney's  pas- 
ture. One  hand  was  resting  on  the  table  and 
the  other  was  pushing  his  hair  back  from  his 
forehead,  two,  three  times,  kind  of  as  if  he 


142    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

was  tired.  And  when  I  see  him,  from  my 
head  to  my  feet  I  begun  to  tremble.  I'd  felt 
like  that  once  or  twice  before — once  when  the 
team  got  scared  and  begun  to  back  off  the 
bridge. 

"Fm  in  town  for  the  rest  of  the  winter,"  he 
was  saying.  "I've  a  few  lectures  to  pull  off — 
and  a  lot  of  proof  to  keep  me  busy.  What 
have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?" 

Then  my  heart  beat  harder.  What  if  she 
told  him  about  me?  And  one  minute  I  was 
sick  with  being  afraid  she  would,  and  next 
minute  I  was  wild  for  fear  she  wouldn't.  I 
didn't  want  to  see  him.  I'd  said  I  wasn't  going 
to  see  him  till  I  could  meet  him  sometime  when 
I  was  the  way  I  was  going  to  be.  But  I'd 
have  come  pretty  near  to  giving  up  my  whole 
chance  of  ever  being  anything,  just  to  have  his 
hands  shut  over  mine  and  to  hear  him  say  my 
name  again. 

She  didn't  tell  him,  Mrs.  Carney  wasn't  the 
telling  kind.  In  a  few  minutes  they  begun  to 
talk  of  other  things — Europe  and  Washington 
and  theaters.     And  while  I  stood  there,  look- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     143 

ing  at  him  and  looking,  it  came  over  me  that 
to  be  listening  there  wouldn't  be  the  way  Mrs. 
Carney  would  act,  nor  the  way  he'd  meant  me 
to  act.  So  I  looked  at  him  once,  hard  enough 
to  last,  the  best  a  look  can  last,  and  then  I  run 
away  up  to  my  room  and  locked  the  door.  I 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  kind  of 
flung  myself  on  to  something  or  somebody  in 
the  air,  that  it  seemed  to  me  mtcst  have  been 
listening  to  me. 

"Make  me  like  I  ain't,"  I  says.  "Make  me 
different!     Make  me  different— YOU !" 

When  I  heard  the  door  shut,  I  went  back 
down-stairs.  I  wanted  to  be  the  next  one  to 
talk  to  her  after  he  had.  She  was  in  the 
library,  putting  the  books  back.  And  her  face 
was  shining  like  I'd  never  seen  it. 

"Oh,  Cosma,"  she  said,  "some  people  make 
you  feel  as  if  it's  a  good  world!" 

"It  is,"  I  says,  "while  they're  around." 

"Yes,"  she  says,  "it  is — while  they're 
around." 

That  was  all  she  said.  Pretty  soon  she  went 
back  in  the  drawing-room,  and  I  followed  her 


144    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

so's  to  be  where  he  had  been.  I'd  been  going 
to  sit  down  in  the  chair  where  he  had  sat,  but 
she  sat  down  there.  So  I  stood  by  the  table. 
And  I  was  glad  it  happened  that  neither  of  us 
said  anything  for  quite  a  while. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  school  was  three  great  buildings  a  lit- 
tle way  from  Mrs.  Carney's  house.  I  had 
never  dreamed  of  anything  so  grand  as  those 
rooms  seemed  to  me.  What  I  couldn't  get  over 
was  the  padded  carpets  that  you  didn't  make  a 
sound  when  you  walked  on.  The  furniture 
was  big  pieces,  all  carved  and  hard  to  dust; 
and  lights  that  didn't  show  was  burning  in  the 
inside  rooms.  There  was  great  vases,  as  tall 
as  I,  and  pictures  as  big  as  the  ceiling  of  Mrs. 
Bingy's  and  my  whole  room. 

The  first  days  at  that  school  are  the  kind  of 
nightmare  that  it  hurts  to  remember  even  in 
the  daytime.  I  begun  by  feeling  so  grand. 
By  the  second  meal  I  was  wretched.  By  the 
time  the  first  evening  was  half  over  and  the 
dancing  in  the  gymnasium,  I  was  sick.  School 
wasn't  the  way  I  thought  it  was. 
145 


146    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

If  only  they'd  taken  me  out  and  ducked  me, 
or  buried  me,  or  left  me  on  the  roof  all  night 
every  night.  But  the  ways  they  had  were 
like  pouring  vinegar  in  a  skinned  place  in  my 
heart.     I  ain't  going  to  talk  about  it ! 

And  yet  I  never  minded  their  laughing,  if 
only  they  looked  at  me  when  they  laughed. 
But  when  they  looked  at  each  other  and 
laughed,  that  killed  me. 

I'd  been  at  the  school  about  six  months  when 
one  afternoon  I  was  coming  across  the  field 
that  everybody  called  the  "campus."  I'd  never 
•called  it  that  yet — it  sounded  like  putting  on. 
I  met  a  lot  of  them  coming  down  from  their 
classes.  I  used  to  begin  looking  at  them  when 
they  were  way  ahead,  hoping  there  was  some- 
body I  knew  and  could  speak  to.  I  liked  to 
speak  to  them.  I'd  had  an  introduction  to 
most  of  them;  but  they  didn't  always  remem- 
ber me.  When  they  did  remember,  they  didn't 
always  speak.  Some  of  them  done  it  on  pur- 
pose. But  always  I  knew  which  was  such. 
That  afternoon  so  many  of  them  didn't  speak 
to  me  that  all  of  a  sudden  I  felt  crazy  to  get 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     147 

away  from  them  all,  off  somewhere  by  myself. 
I  run  down  the  hill  back  of  the  main  building. 
A  stone  wall  went  along  by  the  road.  The 
wall  was  pretty  high,  but  I  put  my  hands  on  it 
the  way  I  used  to  at  home,  and  I  jumped  up 
on  it  with  my  head  in  some  branches.  And  I 
says  out  loud : 

"I  know  how  Keddie  Bingy  used  to  feel 
when  he  got  drunk." 

"My  word !"  said  somebody.  "And  how  did 
he  feel?" 

I  looked  down,  and  there  was  an  automobile 
drawn  up  by  the  wall  and  a  man  in  it,  rolling 
a  cigarette. 

"Don't  you  know?"  I  says. 

"I  don't  know  but  I  do,"  says  he.  "For 
example,  I've  been  sitting  here  one-half  hour 
waiting  for  my  sister.  Do  I  feel  the  way  you 
mean?" 

"Nothing  like,"  I  says,  and  turned  to  jump 
down  again. 

"Don't  let  me  drive  you  away,"  he  says; 
"I  don't  mean  to  bother  you.  I  beg  your  par- 
don like  anything." 


148    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"It's  all  right,"  I  said;  *T  was  going.  I 
didn't  want  to  sit  up  here.  I  don't  know  what 
I  got  up  here  for,  anyway." 

I  picked  up  my  books,  and  he  spoke  again. 

"If  you're  really  going,"  he  said,  "I  wonder 
if  I  could  send  a  message  by  you?" 

"Sure  thing,"  I  says. 

"Do  you  know  Antoinette  Massy  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  know  her  when  I  see  her,"  I  said;  "I 
never  spoke  to  her." 

"She's  in  the  tennis  court  over  there — or 
she  said  she'd  be,"  he  went  on.  "Would  you 
mind  telling  her  that  her  brother  has  been  sit- 
ting here  like  an  image  for  thirty-six  minutes — 
up  to  now  ?  And  that  in  five  minutes  he  won't 
be  here  any  more?" 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "Miss  Massy!  She  went  up 
to  Mann  Hall  to  rehearse,  half  an  hour  ago. 
They  never  get  through  till  dinner  time." 

"Gad!"  he  said;  "it  takes  a  man's  sister  to 
put  him  in  his  true  light."  He  done  pomething 
to  the  car,  and  then  looked  at  me.  "Would — 
would  you  care  to  come  for  a  little  spin?"  he 
asked. 


-fffl^t 


"Would  you  care  to  come  for  a  little  spin?' 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     149 

*T'd  care  like  everything,"  I  says;  "but  I 
can't  go." 

"No  ?"  he  says.     "Yes,  you  can  I" 

"I'm  not  going,"  I  says.     "Thanks,  though." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  why  not?"  he 
says.     "Since  you  say  you  want  to,  you  know." 

I  couldn't  think  of  anything  but  the  truth. 

"I'm  trying  to  act  as  nice  as  I  can,"  I  says, 
"since  I've  been  to  this  school.  And  I  guess 
it's  nicer  not  to  go  with  you." 

His  face  was  pleasant  when  he  kept  on  look- 
ing at  me,  though  he  was  laughing  at  me,  too. 

"Look  here,  then,"  he  said,  "will  you  go 
with  my  sister  and  me  some  day  ?  As  a  favor 
to  me,  you  know — so  you'll  get  her  here  on 
time." 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "I'd  love  to!" 

"Done,"  he  said.  "Tell  me  your  name,  and 
I'll  tell  her  we've  got  an  engagement  with  her." 

When  he'd  gone  I  jumped  down  from  the 
wall  and  ran  pell-mell  up  the  hill.  Before  I 
knew  it,  I  was  humming.  Ain't  it  the  fimniest 
thing  how  one  little  bit  of  a  nice  happening 
from  somebody  makes  you  all  over  like  new? 


150    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Two  days  afterward  I  was  leaving  the  din- 
ing-room when  I  saw  Miss  Antoinette  Massy- 
coming  toward  me.  My  heart  begun  to  beat. 
She  was  so  beautiful  and  dressed  like  a  dream. 
She's  always  seemed  to  me  somebody  far  off, 
and  different — ^like  somebody  that  had  died 
and  been  born  again  from  the  way  I  was. 

"You're  Cosma  Wakely,  aren't  you?"  she 
said.  "My  brother  told  me  about  meeting 
you."  I  couldn't  think  of  a  thing  to  say.  I 
just  kept  thinking  how  the  lace  of  her  waist 
looked  as  if  it  hadn't  ever  been  worn  before; 
and  I  noticed  her  pretty,  rosy,  shining  nails. 
"I  wondered  if  you  wouldn't  go  for  a  motor 
ride  with  my  brother,  Gerald,  and  myself,  to- 
morrow afternoon?" 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "I  could,  like  anything." 

And  all  that  night  when  I  woke  up,  I  kept 
thinking  what  was  going  to  happen,  and  it  was 
in  my  head  like  somethmg  saying  something. 
It  wasn't  so  much  for  the  ride — it  was  that 
they'd  been  the  way  they'd  been  to  me.  That 
"was  it. 

I  put  on  my  best  dress  and  my  best  shoes 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     151 

and  my  other  hat ;  and  when  I  met  Miss  Massy 
in  the  parlor  I  see  right  off  that  I  was  dressed 
up  too  much.  She  had  on  a  sweater  and  a 
little  cap.  I  always  noticed  that  about  me — I 
dressed  up  when  I'd  ought  not  to,  and  times 
when  I  didn't  everybody  else  was  always 
dressed  up. 

Her  brother  came  in,  and  I  hadn't  sensed 
before  how  good-looking  he  was.  If  ever  he 
had  come  to  Katytown,  Lena  Curtsy  would 
have  met  him  before  he  got  half-way  from 
the  depot  to  the  post-office. 

Up  to  then,  this  was  my  most  wonderful 
school-day.  But  it  wasn't  the  ride.  It  was 
because  they  were  both  being  to  me  the  way 
they  were. 

We  stopped  at  a  little  road-house  for  tea. 
I  hated  tea,  and  when  they  asked  me  to  have 
tea,  I  said  so.  I  said  I'd  select  pop.  Going 
back,  it  was  the  surprise  of  my  school  life  that 
far  when  Antoinette  Massy  asked  me  if  I 
would  go  home  with  her  at  the  end  of  the 
week. 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "I  can't!      I  can't!" 


152    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"Do  come/*  she  says ;  "my  brother  will  run 
us  down.    You  can  take  your  work  with  you." 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "it  isn't  that.  I  guess  you 
don't  understand" — I  thought  I  ought  to  tell 
her  just  the  truth — "I  can't  act  the  way  you're 
used  to,  I'm  afraid,"  I  said.  "I'm  learning — 
but  I  had  a  lot  to  know." 

She  laughed,  and  made  me  go.  I  wondered 
why.  But  I  couldn't  help  going.  I  thought  of 
all  the  mistakes  I'd  make — but  then,  I'd  learn 
something,  too.  "Just  be  yourself,"  Miss 
Antoinette  said.  And  I  said,  "Myself  buttered 
a  whole  slice  of  bread  and  bit  it  for  a  week 
before  I  noticed  that  the  rest  didn't."  And 
when  she  said,  "Yourself  did  not.  You  got 
that  from  other  people  in  the  first  place," 
I  asked  her,  "Then,  what  is  myself?"  And. 
she  says,  "That's  what  we're  at  school  to  find 
out!" 

It  was  in  a  big  house  on  the  Hudson  that  the 
Massys  lived.  I  saw  some  glass  houses  for 
flowers.  When  the  door  was  opened  I  saw  a 
lot  more  flowers  and  a  stained  glass  window 
and  a  big  hall  fire. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     153 

"Oh!"  I  says.  "Can  farm-houses  be  like 
that?" 

"What  does  she  mean?"  says  Mrs.  Massy, 
and  shook  hands  with  me.  I  wanted  to  laugh 
when  I  looked  at  her.  She  was  little  and  thick 
everywhere,  and  she  had  on  a  good  many 
things,  and  she  looked  so  anxious!  It  didn't 
seem  as  if  there  was  enough  things  in  all  the 
world  to  make  anybody  look  so  anxious  about 
them. 

Dinner  was  at  half  past  seven.  In  Katy- 
town  supper  is  all  over  by  half  past  six,  and  at 
half  past  seven  the  post-office  is  shut.  I  had  a 
little  light  cloth  dress,  and  I  put  that  on;  and 
then  I  just  set  down  and  looked  around  my 
room.  There  was  a  big  bed  with  a  kind  of  a 
flowered  umbrella  over  it  with  lace  hanging 
down ;  and  a  little  low  dressing  table,  all  white 
and  glass,  and  my  own  bath  showed  through 
the  open  door.  And  looking  around  that  room 
and  remembering  how  the  house  was,  I 
thought : 

"Oh,  if  Mother  could  have  had  things  fixed 
up  a  little,  maybe  she  could  have  been  different 


154    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

herself.     Maybe  then  she'd  have  been  Mother 
instead  of  *Ma'  from  the  beginning." 

In  the  drawing-room  were  Mrs.  Massy  and 
Mr.  Gerald,  her  looking  like  a  little,  fat,  bright- 
colored  ball,  and  him  like  a  man  on  some  stage 
— better  than  any  man  I'd  seen  in  the  Katy- 
town  opera-house  attractions,  even.  The  din- 
ing-room was  lovely,  and  the  table  was  like  a 
long  wide  puzzle.  I  watched  Miss  Antoinette, 
and  I  done  like  her,  word  for  word,  food  for 
food,  tool  for  tool.  They  talked  more  about 
nothing  than  anybody  I'd  ever  heard.  Mrs. 
Massy  would  take  the  most  innocent  little  re- 
mark, and  worry  it  like  a  terrier,  and  run  off 
with  the  pieces,  making  a  new  remark  of  each 
one.  She  had  things  enough  around  her  neck 
to  choke  her  if  they'd  all  got  to  going.  There 
were  two  guests,  enormous  women  with  lovely 
velvet  belts  for  waists.  They  talked  in  bursts 
and  gushes  and  up  on  their  high  tiptoes — I 
can't  explain  it.  It  was  like  another  language, 
all  irregular.  I  just  kept  still,  and  ate,  and 
one  or  two  things  I  couldn't  comprehend  I 
didn't  take  any  of.     Everything  would  have 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     155 

been  all  right  if  only  one  of  the  guests  hadn't 
thought  of  something  funny  to  tell. 

"Elwell  sounded  the  horn  right  in  the  midst 
of  a  group  of  factory  girls  to-night,"  she  said. 
"We  were  in  a  tearing  hurry  and  we  didn't  see 
them.  And  one  of  them  stood  still,  right  in 
the  road,  and  she  said,  *You  go  round  me.' 
Why,  she  might  have  been  killed!  and  then 
we  should  have  been  arrested.  Elwell  had  all 
he  could  do  to  swing  the  car." 

All  of  a  sudden  come  to  me  the  picture  of 
those  girls — ^the  girls  I  knew,  tracking  home  at 
night,  dog-tired,  dead-tired,  from  ten  hours  on 
their  feet  and  going  home  to  what  they  was 
going  home  to.  I  saw  'em  with  my  heart — 
Rose  and  all  the  rest  that  I  knew  and  that  I 
didn't  know.  And  the  table  I  was  to,  and  the 
lights  and  the  glass,  blurred  off.  Something 
in  my  head  did  something.  I  had  just  sense 
enough  not  to  say  anything,  for  I  knew  I 
couldn't  say  enough,  or  say  it  right  so's  I  could 
make  it  mean  anything.  But  I  shoved  back  my 
chair,  and  I  walked  out  the  door. 

In  the  hall  I  ran.     I  got  the  front  door  open, 


156    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

and  I  got  out  on  the  porch.  I  wanted  to  be 
away  from  there.  What  right  did  I  have  to 
be  there,  anyhow?  And  while  I  stood  there 
with  the  wind  biting  down  on  me,  all  of  a  sud- 
den it  wasn*t  only  Rose  and  Nettie  and  the  girls 
I  saw,  but  it  was  Mother,  too — Mother  when 
rd  used  to  call  her  "Ma.'' 

Mr.  Gerald  was  by  me  in  a  minute. 

"Miss  Cosma,"  he  said,  "what  is  it?'' 

•He  took  my  arm — in  that  wonderful,  taking- 
care  way  that  is  so  dear  in  a  man,  when  it  is — 
and  he  drew  me  back  into  the  vestibule. 

"If  she  speaks  like  that  about  those  girls 
again,"  I  said,  "I'll  throw  my  glass  of  water 
at  her." 

I  hated  him  for  what  he  said.  What  he  said 
was: 

"By  jove!    You  are  magnificent!" 

It  took  all  the  strength  out  of  me.  "None 
of  you  see  it,"  I  said.  "I  don't  know  what 
I'm  here  for.  I  don't  belong  here.  I  belong 
out  there  in  the  road  with  those  girls  that  the 
car  plowed  through." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said.     "Why 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     ISZ 

don't  you  stay  here  and  teach  me  something 
about  them?  I  don't  even  know  what  you 
mean." 

He  put  me  in  a  chair  by  the  fire,  and  they 
sent  me  some  coffee  there.  I  heard  him  ex- 
plaining that  I  felt  a  little  faint.  I  wanted  to 
yell,  "It's  a  lie."  I  knew,  then,  that  I  was  a 
savage — all  the  pretty  little  smooth  things  they 
used  to  cover  up  with,  I  wanted  to  rip  up  and 
throw  at  all  of  them. 

"I  hate  it  here,"  I  thought.  "I  hate  the 
factory.     I  hate  home.     I  hate  Luke.  ..." 

That  was  nearly  everything  that  I  knew; 
and  I  hated  them  all.  Was  it  me  that. every- 
thing was  wrong  with,  I  wondered?  I  was 
looking  down  at  Mr.  Gerald's  hands  that  had 
moved  so  dainty  and  used-to-things  all  the 
while  he  was  eating.  That  made  me  think  of 
Mr.  Ember's  hands  when  he  was  eating  that 
morning  at  Joe's.  These  folks  all  did  things 
like  Mr.  Ember.  And  I'd  got  to  stay  there  till 
I  knew  how  to  do  them,  too.  But  from  that 
minute  I  began  to  wonder  why  folks  that  can 
do  things  so  dainty  don't  always  live  up  to  it" 


158    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

in  other  ways,  like  it  seemed  to  me  he  did. 
And  then  I  got  to  thinking  about  his  patience 
with  me,  so  by  the  time  the  rest  came  in  from 
the  dining-room  I  was  all  still  again. 

When  the  guests  had  gone  I  was  standing 
by  some  long  curtains  when  Miss  Antoinette 
walked  over  to  me.  "You  lovely  thing,"  she 
said.  "By  that  rose  curtain  you  are  stunning. 
Stand  still,  dear.     Gerald,  look." 

But  I  didn't  think  much  about  him ;  and  my 
eyes  brimmed  up. 

"You  called  me  'dear,*  "  I  says.  "You're 
about  the  first  one." 

She  put  her  arm  around  me,  and  then  it  come 
out.  Her  brother  had  one  wing  of  the  ground 
floor  all  to  himself.  It  was  a  studio.  He 
painted.  And  he  wanted  to  paint  me.  There 
was  only  one  thing  I  thought  about. 

"I'll  be  glad  to  do  that,"  I  says,  "if  you'll 
both  teach  me  some  of  the  things  you  see  I 
don't  know — talking,  eating,  everything." 

The  way  they  hesitated  was  so  nice  for  my 
feelings  it  was  like  having  my  first  lesson  then. 

I  went  down  there  the  whole  spring.     And 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     159 

Ihere,  and  to  the  school,  little  by  little  I  learned 
things.  I  knew  it — I  could  almost  feel  it.  I 
didn't  always  know  what  I'd  learned,  but  I 
knew  that  it  was  changing  me.  I  don't  know 
any  better  feeling.  It's  more  fun  than  making 
a  garden.  It's  more  fun  than  watching  pup- 
pies grow.  It  was  almost  as  much  fun  as 
writing  my  book.  And  back  of  it  all  was  the 
great  big  sense,  shining  and  shining,  that  I  was 
getting  more  the  way  I  wanted  to  be,  that  I  had 
to  be,  if  ever  I  was  to  see  him  again.  John 
Ember  was  in  my  life  all  the  time,  like  some- 
body saying  something. 

Pretty  soon  Miss  Antoinette's  maid  put  my 
hair  up  a  different  way.  And  Miss  Antoinette 
had  a  nice  gown  of  hers  altered  for  me.  I'll 
never  forget  the  night  I  first  put  on  that  lace 
dress.  We'd  motored  out  as  usual,  on  a  Fri- 
day in  May,  when  I'd  been  going  there  most 
three  months.  They  were  going  to  have  a  few 
people  for  dinner.  I'd  had  a  peep  at  the  table, 
that  looked  like  a  banquet,  and  I  thought :  ''Not 
a  thing  on  it,  Cosma  Wakely,  that  you  don't 
know  how  to  use  right.    Wouldn't  Katytown 


160    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

stick  out  its  eyes?"  And  when  Miss  Antoi- 
nette's maid  put  the  dress  on  me,  I  most 
jumped.    I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  was  me. 

I  remember  I  come  out  of  my  room,  loving 
the  way  the  lace  felt  all  around  me.  The  hall 
was  lighted  bright  down-stairs,  and,  beyond, 
some  folks  were  just  coming  into  the  vestibule, 
in  lovely  colored  cloaks.  And  all  of  a  sudden 
I  thought : 

"Oh — ^living  is  something  different  from 
what  I  always  thought!  And  I  must  be  one  of 
the  ones  that's  intended  to  know  about  it !" 

It  was  a  wonderful,  grand  feeling;  and  it 
was  surprising  what  confidence  it  gave  me. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  one  of  the  maids 
knocked  against  me  with  a  big  branched  candle- 
stick she  was  carrying. 

"You  should  be  more  careful !"  I  says  to  her, 
sharp.  And  I  couldn't  help  feeling  like  a  great 
lady  when  she  apologized,  scared. 

In  the  drawing-room  the  first  person  I 
walked  into  was  Mr.  Gerald.  I'd  been  seeing 
him  almost  every  week—usually  he  and  Miss 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     161 

Antoinette  drove  me  down  on  Friday  nights. 
But  I'd  never  seen  him  quite  like  this. 

"By  jove!  By  jove!"  he  said,  and  bowed 
over  my  hand  just  the  way  I'd  seen  him  do  to 
other  women.     "Oh,  Cosma!" 

He'd  never  called  me  that  before.  I  liked  his 
saying  it,  and  saying  it  that  way.  When  I 
went  to  meet  the  rest,  and  knew  he  was  watch- 
ing me  and  that  he  liked  the  way  I  looked — 
instead  of  being  embarrassed  I  thought  it  was 
fun. 

And  when  it  was  Mr.  Gerald  that  took  me 
down,  and  we  all  went  into  that  beautiful 
room,  and  to  the  dinner  table  that  I  wasn't 
afraid  of — I  can't  explain  it,  but  everything 
I'd  ever  done  before  seemed  a  long  way  off  and 
I  didn't  want  to  bother  remembering. 

It  was  a  happy  two  hours.  After  a  while  I 
began  to  want  to  say  little  things,  and  I  found 
I  could  say  them  so  nobody  looked  surprised, 
or  glanced  at  anybody  else  after  I  had  spoken. 
That  was  a  wonderful  thing,  when  I  first  no- 
ticed that  they  didn't  glance  at  each  other  when 


162    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  said  anything.  I  saw  I  could  say  the  truth 
right  out,  if  I  only  laughed  about  it  a  little  bit, 
and  they'd  call  it  "quaint,"  and  laugh  too, 
instead  of  thinking  I  was  "bad  form."  There 
was  quite  an  old  man  on  my  right,  and  I  liked 
that.  I  always  got  along  better  with  them 
than  the  middle  ones  that  wanted  to  talk  about 
themselves. 

Just  as  soon  as  the  men  came  up-stairs,  Mr. 
Gerald  came  where  I  was.  He  wanted  me  to 
go  down  the  rooms  to  see  a  "Chartron."  I 
thought  it  was  some  kind  of  furniture;  but 
when  I  got  there  it  was  a  picture  of  Miss  An- 
toinette, and  we  sat  down  with  our  backs  to  it. 

"How  are  you  ?"  Mr.  Gerald  said — his  voice 
was  kind  of  like  he  kept  boxes  of  them  and 
opened  one  special  for  you.  "Tell  me  about 
yourself." 

"I  feel,"  I  said,  "as  if  Fd  been  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  things  all*  my  life,  and  I'd  just  jumped 
over  in.  It's  a  pity  you  never  were  bom  again. 
You  can't  tell  how  it  feels." 

"Yes,  I  was,"  he  said,  "I've  been  bom 
again." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     163 

"Well,  didn't  it  make  you  want  to  forget 
everything  that  had  happened  to  you  before?" 
I  said. 

"It  does,"  said  Mr.  Gerald;  "and  I  have. 
You  know,  don't  you,  that  I  count  time  now 
from  the  day  I  met  you?" 

"Great  guns !"  I  said. 

It  took  me  off  my  feet  so  that  I  didn't  re- 
member to  say  "My  word,"  like  they'd  told  me. 
I  sat  and  stared  at  him. 

He  laughed  at  me.  "You  wonder!"  he  said. 
"They'll  never  spoil  you,  after  all.  Cosma, — 
couldn't  you?    Couldn't  you?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Gerald,"  I  says,  "I'd  as  soon 
think  of  loving  the  president." 

"Don't  bother  about  him,"  he  says.  "Love 
me. 

Some  more  folks  came  in  then  to  see  the 
Chartron,  and  I  never  saw  him  any  more  that 
night  till  they  were  leaving.  Then  he  told  me 
Miss  Antoinette  was  going  back  on  Sunday, 
but  he'd  run  me  in  town  on  Monday  morning, 
if  I'd  go.    I  said  I'd  go. 

It  was  rainine-  that  Monday  morning,  and 


164    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

everything  smelled  sort  of  old-fashioned  and 
nice,  and  the  rain  beat  in  our  faces. 

"Cosma,"  he  said,  "don't  keep  me  waiting." 

"Why  not?"  I  said.  I  can  see  just  the  way 
the  road  went  stretching  in  front  of  us.  I 
looked  at  it,  and  I  thought  why  not,  why  not. 
.  .  .  rd  been  saved  from  Katytown.  I'd  been 
saved  from  Luke,  from  Mr.  Carney,  from  the 
factory.  I'd  been  given  my  school,  and  now 
this  chance.    Why  not? 

"Because  I  love  you  so  much  that  it  isn't  fair 
to  me,"  he  said. 

And  he  thought  he  was  answering  what  I 
had  said,  but  instead  he  was  really  answering 
what  I  had  thought. 

"You  like  your  new  life,  don't  you?"  he  said. 
"Why  not  have  it  all  the  time,  then?  And  if 
you  love  me,  even  a  little,  I  can  make  you 
happy — I  know  I  can." 

"And  could  I  make  you  happy?"  I  said. 

"Gad!"  said  Mr.  Gerald. 

The  road  was  empty  in  the  soft  beating  rain. 
With  the  slow  and  perfectly  sure  way  he  did 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     165 

everything  he  ran  the  car  to  the  curb  and 
turned  to  me. 

"Cosma,"  he  said. 

I  looked  at  him.  Just  a  word  of  mine,  and 
my  whole  life  would  be  settled,  to  be  lived  with 
him,  and  with  all  that  I  began  to  suspect  I  was 
meant  to  have.  I  kept  looking  at  him.  I  felt 
a  good  deal  the  way  I  had  felt  when  I  looked 
at  a  long-distance  telephone  and  knew,  with 
a  word,  I  could  talk  a  thousand  miles.  And 
I  didn't  feel  much  more. 

He  took  me  in  his  arms  and  drew  my  wet 
face  close  to  his,  that  was  warm,  as  his  lips 
were  warm. 

"I  want  you  for  my  wife,"  he  said. 

It  seemed  so  wonderful  that  he  should  love 
me  that  I  thought  mostly  about  that,  and  not 
about  whether  I  loved  him  at  all.  I  sat  still 
and  said: 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  love  me.  There's 
so  much  I've  got  to  learn  yet,  before  I'm  like 
the  ones  you  know." 

"You're  adorable,"  he  said;  "you're  glori- 


166    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

ous.  I  love  you.  I  want  you  with  me  always. 
.  .  .  Cosma!    Say  maybe.    Say  just  that!" 

So  then  I  did  the  thing  so  many  girls  had 
done  before  me  and  will  do  after  me : 

"Well,  then,"  I  said,  "maybe." 

He  frightened  me,  he  was  so  glad.  I  felt  left 
out.    I  wished  that  I  was  glad  like  that. 

But  it  was  surprising  how  much  more  con- 
fidence I  had  in  myself  after  I  knew  that  a 
man  like  Mr.  Gerald  loved  me. 

"That's  because,"  I  said  to  me,  "women  have 
counted  only  when  men  have  loved  them." 

And  I  thought  that  had  ought  to  be  different. 


CHAPTER   IX 

ONE  day  toward  spring  I  went  down  to  see 
Mrs.  Bingy.  She  had  three  women  in 
her  room  every  day,  making  the  lace.  She  had 
regular  customers  from  the  shops.  When  I 
went  in  she  was  in  a  good  black  dress  and  was 
sitting  holding  the  baby,  that  was  beginning 
now  to  talk. 

"Oh,  Cossy,"  she  says,  "look  what  I  got," 
and  pointed  to  some  papers. 

"Katytown  papers,"  I  said.  "I  don't  sup- 
pose there's  a  soul  there  outside  the  family  that 
I  care  whether  I  ever  see  again  or  not." 

"Why,  Cossy,"  she  said,  "there's  Lena—" 

"Lena  Curtsy!"  I  said.  "Good  heavens! 
Mrs.  Bingy,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me 
'Cossy.' " 

"I  always  do  forget  the  Cosma,"  she  said 
humbly;  "I'll  try  to  remember  better.  But 
Lena  Curtsy — Cossy,  she's  married  to  Luke." 

"Good  for  them,"  I  said;  "and  I  suppose 
167 


168    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

they  had  a  charivari  that  woke  the  cemetery. 
That's  Katytown." 

"They've  gone  to  housekeeping  to  Luke's 
father's,"  said  Mrs.  Bingy.  "Don't  you  want 
to  read  about  it,  Cossy — Cosma?" 

I  took  the  paper.  "Mrs.  Bingy,"  I  said,  "I 
came  down  to  show  you  my  new  dress." 

"It's  a  beauty,"  she  said.  "I  noticed  it  first 
thing  when  I  see  you.  It  must  be  all-silk." 
She  examined  it  with  careful  fingers.  "I  made 
this  of  mine  myself,"  she  added,  proud. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  Keddie?"  I 
asked  her. 

She  begun  to  cry.  "That's  all  that's  the 
matter,"  she  says.  "The  first  money  I  earned 
I  sent  him  enough  to  go  and  take  the  cure. 
The  letter  come  back  to  me,  marked  that  they 
couldn't  find  him.  So  I  took  the  baby  and  run 
down  to  Katytown,  and,  sure  enough,  the  house 
was  rented  to  strangers  and  not  a  stick  of 
furniture  left  in  it.  He'd  sold  it  all  off  and 
went  West.  And  me  with  the  money  to  give 
him  the  cure,  when  it's  too  late.  I  ought," 
she  says,'  "never  to  have  left  him." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     169 

"Mrs.  Bingy,"  I  says,  "do  you  honestly  be- 
lieve that?" 

"No,"  says  she,  "I  don't.  But  it's  a  terrible 
thing  to  own  up  to.  I  saw  your  Ma  in  Katy- 
town." 

"Oh!"  I  says.  "How  is  she?  She  don't 
write.  She  just  wrote  once  and  put  in  a  dollar 
chicken  money." 

"They  think  you'll  be  back  yet,"  Mrs.  Bingy 
says.  "Your  Pa  says,  *Her  place  is  here  to 
home  with  her  Ma.  Her  Ma's  getting  along  in 
years  now,  and  she  needs  her  to  home,  and 
she'd  ought  to  come  back.'  " 

"Why  don't  the  boys  come  back  ?"  I  says. 

"Oh,  they're  working,"  Mrs.  Bingy  says, 
surprised. 

"So  am  I,"  I  says.  "Mrs.  Bingy!  Do  you 
think  I  ought  to  go  back?" 

She  leaned  forward  and  spoke  it  behind  her 
hand. 

"No,"  she  says,  "I  don't.  But  it's  a  terrible 
thing  to  own  up  to." 

I  went  back  to  the  school  that  Monday  morn- 
ing, wondering  why  it  seems  hard  to  own  up 


170    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

to  so  many  things  that's  true.  H  they're  true, 
the  least  you  can  do  is  to  own  up  to  them, 
ain't  it? 

It  was  some  time  before  this  that  I'd  made 
up  my  mind  to  try  for  the  Savage  Prize.  The 
Savage  Prize  was  open  to  the  whole  school,  and 
it  was  for  the  best  oration  given  at  a  contest 
the  week  before  commencement.  I  was  pretty 
good  at  what  I  called  speaking  pieces,  and 
what  they  called  "vocational  expression."  And 
I  had  some  things  in  my  head  that  I  wanted 
to  write  about.  I'd  decided  to  write  on  "Grow- 
ing," and  I  meant  by  that  just  getting  different 
from  what  you  were,  that  my  head  was  so  full 
of.  I  had  a  good  deal  to  say,  beginning  with 
that  white  god  that  I  knew  all  about  now. 
But  Rose  Everly  didn't  know.  And  I  won- 
dered why. 

One  day  the  principal  called  me  in  her 
office. 

"Miss  Spot  has  showed  me  the  rough  draft 
of  your  oration,"  she  said.  "It  is  admirable, 
Cosma.  But  I  should  not  emphasize  unduly 
the  painful  fact  that  there  are  many  to  whom 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     171 

growth  is  denied.  Dwell  on  the  inspiring  fea- 
tures of  the  subject.  Let  it  bring  out  chiefly 
sweetness  and  light." 

"But—"  I  says. 
•    "That  will  do,  Cosma.    Thank  you,"  said  the 
principal. 

While  I  was  working  on  the  Savage  Prize 
oration,  trying  to  make  it  "all  sweetness  and 
light,"  Antoinette  sent  me  a  note,  in  history 
class. 

"Jolly  larks  1"  she  said,  "Friday.  Dinner  at 
the  Dudleys'  studio.  Opera  in  the  Dudleys' 
box.  Our  house  for  Sunday.  Look  your  best. 
Baddy  Dudley  is  back — ^You  remember  about 
him?" 

Mr.  Gerald  had  been  promising  to  take  us 
to  the  Dudleys'  studio.  Mr.  Dudley's  brother, 
"Baddy,"  spending  that  winter  in  Italy,  had 
had  a  kodak  picture  of  Antoinette  and  me  and 
had  sent  me  messages  through  Gerald. 

On  the  night  of  the  party  I  was  dressing  in 
my  room  at  the  school  when  a  maid  came  up 
with  a  message.  A  girl  was  down-stairs  to  see 
me.     My  lace  gown  and  a  white  cloak  that 


172    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Antoinette  had  loaned  me  were  spread  on  the 
bed.  I  was  just  finishing  my  hair  and  tying 
in  it  a  gold  rose  of  Antoinette's  when  my 
visitor  came  in.    It  was  Rose  Everly. 

ril  never  forget  how  Rose  looked.  She  had 
on  a  little  tight  brown  jacket  and  a  woolen  cap. 
Her  skirt  was  wet  and  her  boots  were  muddy. 
She  stood  winking  in  the  light,  and  panting  a 
little. 

"My!"  she  said,  "you  live  high  up,  don't 
you?"  Then  she  stood  staring  at  me. 
"Cosma,"  she  said,  "how  beautiful!'* 

She  dropped  into  a  chair.  In  that  first  thing 
she  said  she  had  been  the  old  Rose.  Then  she 
got  still  and  shy,  and  sat  openly  looking  at 
my  clothes.  She  was  not  more  than  twenty- 
one,  and  the  factory  life  had  not  told  on  her 
too  much.  Yet  some  of  the  life  seemed  to  have 
gone  out  of  her.  She  talked  as  if  not  all  of  her 
was  there.  She  sat  quietly  and  she  looked  as 
if  she  were  resting  all  over.  But  her  eyes  were 
bright  and  interested  as  she  looked  at  my  dress. 

I  said,  "People  have  been  good  to  me,  Rose. 
They  gave  me  these." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     173 

"You're  different,  too,"  she  said,  looking 
hard  at  me.  "You  talk  different,  too.  Oh, 
dear.    I  bet  you  won't  do  it !" 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,"  I  said,  and  put  the  lace 
dress  over  my  head. 

"It's  the  first  meeting  since  the  fire,"  Rose 
said.     "I  wanted  you  there." 

I  asked  her  what  fire,  and  her  eyes  got  big. 

"Didn't  yoa  know,"  she  said,  "about  the  fire 
in  our  factory?  Didn't  you  know  the  doors 
were  locked  again,  and  five  of  us  burned 
alive?" 

I  hadn't  known.  That  seemed  to  me  so  aw- 
ful. There  I  was,  fed  and  clothed  and  not 
worrying  about  rent,  and  here  this  thing  had 
happened,  and  I  nor  none  of  us  hadn't  even 
heard  of  it.  Miss  Manners  and  Miss  Spot 
didn't  like  us  to  read  the  newspapers  too  much. 

"It  broke  out  in  the  pressroom,"  Rose  said. 
"That  girl  that  was  feeding  your  old  press — 
they  never  even  found  her." 

"Oh,  Rose,"  I  said.  "Rose,  Rose!"  And 
when  I  could  I  asked  her  what  it  was  that  she 
had  come  wanting  me  to  do. 


174    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

She  made  a  little  tired  motion.  "It  ain't 
only  the  fire,"  she  said.  "Things  have  got 
worse  with  us.  We've  got  three  times  the  fines. 
Since  they've  stopped  locking  the  doors,  they 
make  us  be  searched  every  night,  and  the  new 
forewoman — she's  fierce.  And  we  can't  get 
the  girls  interested.  They  say  it  ain't  no  use 
to  try.  We  want  to  try  to  have  one  more  meet- 
ing to  show  'em  there  is  some- use.  And  we 
thought,  mebbe — we  knew  you  could  make  'em 
see,  Cosma.    If  you'd  come  and  talk  to  'em." 

"When  would  it  be?"  I  asked  her. 

"They've  called  the  meeting  for  to-morrow 
night,"  she  told  me. 

"To-morrow !"  I  said.  "Oh,  Rose — no,  then 
I  can't.  I'm  going  out  of  town  to-night,  for 
two  days,  up  the  Hudson.  .  .  ." 

I  stopped.  She  got  up  and  came  to  fasten 
my  sash  for  me. 

"I  thought  mebbe  you  couldn't,"  she  said; 
"but  it  was  worth  trying." 

"Have  it  next  week,"  I  said.  "Have  the 
meeting  then.'* 

But  they  had  postponed  once — some  one. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     175 

Rose  said,  had  "peached"  to  the  forewoman. 
For  to-morrow  night  the  men  had  loaned  them 
a  hall.  She  bent  to  my  sash.  I  could  see  her 
in  my  glass.    1  was  ashamed. 

She  told  me  what  had  come  to  the  girls — 
marriage,  promotion,  disgrace.  Two  of  them 
had  disappeared. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  I  kept  on  saying.  Then  the 
maid  came  to  tell  me  the  motor  was  there.  I 
put  on  my  cloak  with  the  fur  and  the  bright 
lining.  It  had  made  me  feel  magnificent  and 
happy.    With  Rose  there,  I  felt  all  different. 

She  slipped  away  and  went  out  in  the  dark. 
The  light  was  on  in  the  limousine.  Mr.  Gerald 
came  running  up  the  steps  for  me.  Antoinette 
was  there  already.  I  went  down  and  got  in. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

The  drive  curved  back  around  the  dormitory, 
and  so  to  the  street  again.  As  we  came  put  on 
the  roadway,  we  passed  Rose,  walking. 

I  thought :  "She's  walking  till  the  street-car 
comes."  But  I  knew  it  was  far  more  likely 
that  she  was  walking  all  the  way  to  her  room. 

At  the  Dudleys'  studio  I  forgot  Rose  for  a 


176    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

little  while.  It  was  a  great  dark  room  with 
bright  colors  and  dim  lamps.  Mrs.  Dudley  had 
on  a  dress  of  leopard  skins,  with  a  pointed 
crown  on  her  head.  There  were  twenty  or 
more  there,  and  among  them  "Baddy"  Dudley. 
From  the  minute  I  came  in  the  room  he  came 
and  sat  beside  me.  He  was  big  and  ugly,  but 
there  was  something  about  him  that  made  you 
forget  all  the  other  men  in  the  room. 

It  was  a  wonderful  dinner.  When  coffee 
came,  the  lights  flashed  up,  a  curtain  was 
lifted,  and  Mrs.  Dudley  danced.  The  lights 
rose  and  fell  as  she  danced,  and  with  them 
the  music.  Every  one  broke  into  a  low  hum- 
ming with  the  music.  Then  she  sank  down, 
and  the  lights  went  out,  and  we  sat  in  the 
dark  until  she  came  back  to  dance  again.  *T 
shall  never  be  happy,"  said  Mr.  Dudley  as  we 
sat  so,  "until  I  see  you  dance,  in  a  costume 
which  I  shall  design  for  you." 

"Will  you  dance  with  me?"  I  asked  him. 
That  was  the  most  fun — ^that  I  could  think  of 
things  to  say,  just  the  way  Lena  Curtsy  used 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     177 

to — only  now  they  were  never  the  kind  that 
made  anybody  look  shocked. 

"Make  the  appointment  in  the  Fiji  Islands 
or  in  Fez,"  he  said;  "and  there  I  will  be." 

Mr.  Gerald  came  and  sat  down  beside  me. 

"Oh,  very  well,  Massy — to  the  knife,"  says 
Mr.  Dudley. 

It  was  half  after  nine  when  we  left  for  the 
opera.  The  second  act  had  begun,  which 
seemed  to  me  a  wicked  waste  of  tickets.  But 
even  then  Mr.  Gerald  had  no  intention  of 
listening.     He  sat  beside  me  and  talked. 

"Cosma,"  he  said,  "I'm  about  ten  times  as 
miserable  as  usual  to-night.  Can't  you  say 
something." 

I  said,  "Tell  me:  Is  that  what  they  call  a 
minor?    Because  I  want  those  for  my  heaven." 

"I  want  you  for  my  heaven,"  Mr.  Gerald 
observed.  "Dear,  I'm  terribly  in  earnest. 
Don't  make  me  run  a  race  with  that  bally  ass." 

"Don't  race,"  I  said.     "Listen." 

"I  am  listening,"  said  Gerald,  "to  hear  what 
you  will  say." 


178    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

All  at  once  it  flashed  over  me:  Cosma 
Wakely,  from  a  farm  near  Katytown!  Here 
I  was,  loving  my  new  life  and  longing  to  keep 
it  up. 

"You're  right  where  you  belong,"  he  went 
on,  "looking  just  as  you  look  now.  But  you 
do  need  me,  you  know,  to  complete  the  pic- 
ture." 

It  was  true.  I  did  belong  where  I  was. 
By  a  miracle  I  had  got  there.  Why  was  I 
hesitating  to  stay?  If  it  had  been  Lena  Curtsy, 
or  Rose,  I  couldn't  imagine  them  feeling  as 
if  all  this  belonged  to  them.  It  was  true.  There 
must  be  these  distinctions.  Why  should  I  not 
accept  what  had  come?  And  then  help  the 
girls — help  Father  and  Mother.  Think  of  the 
good  I  could  do  as  Gerald's  wife.  .  .  . 

The  music  died,  just  like  something  alive. 
The  curtain  went  down.  And  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  applause,  and  the  silly  bowing  on  the 
stage,  and  the  chatter  in  the  box,  I  looked  in 
the  box  next  to  ours.  And  there  sat  John 
Ember. 


CHAPTER   X 

HE  was  sitting  very  near  me,  leaning  his 
arm  on  the  velvet  rail  which  divided  the 
boxes.  He  was  looking  at  the  stage.  Two  young 
girls  and  a  very  beautiful  woman,  beautifully 
dressed,  were  with  him.  Save  for  his  formal 
dress,  he  looked  exactly  as  he  looked  when  I 
had  said  good-by  to  him  in  Twiney's  pasture. 
I  was  terrified  for  fear  he  should  turn  and 
look  at  me.  I  longed,  as  I  had  never  longed 
for  anything,  to  have  him  turn  and  look.  I 
shrank  back  lest  I  should  find  that  I  must 
speak  to  him.  I  was  wild  with  the  wish  to 
lean  and  speak  his  name.  What  if  he  had  for- 
gotten? Not  until  I  caught  the  lift  of  his  brow 
as  he  turned,  the  line  of  his  chin,  the  touch 
of  his  hand,  already  familiar,  to  his  forehead, 
did  I  know  how  well  I  had  remembered.  And 
then,  abruptly,  I  was  shot  through  with  a 
sweetness  and  a  pride:  The  time  had  come! 
I  could  meet  him  as  I  had  dreamed  bi  meet- 
179 


180    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

ing  him,  speak  to  him  as  I  had  hoped  sometime 
to  speak  to  him,  as  some  one  a  Httle  within  his 
world.  .  .  . 

"The  bally  trouble  with  opera — "  Gerald 
was  beginning. 

"Please,  please!"  I  said.  "You  talked  right 
through  that  act,  Gerald.  Let  me  sit  still 
now !" 

Mr.  Ember,  his  face  turned  somewhat  to- 
ward the  house,  was  talking  to  the  woman 
beside  him. 

"...  the  new  day,"  he  said.  "Such  a  place 
as  this  gives  one  hope.  For  all  the  folly  of  it, 
some  do  care.  Here  is  music — a  good  deal 
segregated,  in  a  place  apart,  for  folk  to  come 
and  participate.  And  they  come — by  jove,  you 
know,  they  come!" 

The  woman  said  something  which  I  did  not 
hear. 

"Not  as  pure  an  example  as  a  symphony  con- 
cert," he  said,  "no.  There  they  demand  noth- 
ing— ^no  accessories,  no  deception,  no  laughter 
— even  rto  story !  That  is  music,  pure  and  un- 
defiled,  and,  it  seems  to  me,  really  socialized. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    181 

There  participation  is  complete,  with  no  inter- 
ventions. I  tell  you  we're  coming  on!  Any- 
day  now,  the  drama  may  do  the  same  thing!" 

He  listened  to  the  woman  again,  and  nodded, 
without  looking  at  her.  That  made  me  think 
of  a  new  wonder — of  what  it  would  be  to 
have  him  understand  one  like  that. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  "there's  the  heartbreak. 
God  knows  how  long  it  will  be  before  these 
things  will  be  for  more  than  the  few.  This 
whole  thing," — ^his  arm  went  out  toward  the 
house — "and  us  with  it,  are  sitting  on  the 
chests  of  the  rest  of  them.  And  that  isn't  so 
bad,  bad  as  it  is.  The  worst  is  that  we  don't 
even  know  it." 

"But  what  is  one  to  do?"  she  cried — ^her 
voice  was  so  eager  that  I  caught  some  of  what 
she  said.    "What  can  one  do  ?" 

"Find  your  comer  and  dig  like  a  devil,"  he 
said.  "I  suppose  I  should  say  go  at  it  like  a 
god.  Only  we  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  do 
that—yet." 

He  sat  silent  for  a  minute,  looking  over  the 
house. 


182    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"We  don't  even  half  know  that  the  other  fel- 
low is  here,"  he  said.  "The  isolation  in  audi- 
ences is  frightful.  Look  at  us  now — we  don't 
even  guess  we're  all  on  the  same  job."  He 
laughed.    "We  need  to  unionize  !'* 

Some  one  else  came  to  their  box  and  joined 
them.  He  rose,  moved  away,  talked  with  them 
all.  Then  he  came  to  his  place  again,  very 
near  me,  and  sat  silent  while  the  others  talked. 
I  could  see  his  head  against  the  velvet  stage 
curtain,  and  his  fine  clear  profile.  But  now  it 
was  as  if  I  were  looking  at  him  down  a  meas- 
ureless distance. 

I  looked  down  at  my  yellow  dress  and  my 
yellow  slippers,  at  my  hands  that  were  mani- 
cured under  my  long  gloves.  I  thought  of 
the  things  they  had  taught  me,  about  moving 
and  speaking  and  eating.  I  thought  how  proud 
I  was  that  I  had  made  myself  different.  And 
to-night,  when  I  first  saw  him  in  that  box,  it 
was  as  if  I  had  come  running  to  him,  like  a 
little  child  with  a  few  bangles — and  I  had 
thought  I  could  meet  him  now,  almost  like  an 
equal. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     183 

And  I  saw  now  that  the  girl  who  had  sat 
there  outside  the  Katytown  inn  and  had  eaten 
her  peaches,  and  had  tried  to  flirt  with  him, 
wasn't  much  farther  away  from  him — not 
much  farther  away — than  I  was,  there  in  the 
opera  box  in  my  yellow  dress,  with  a  year  of 
school  behind  me.  And  my  only  chance  to 
help  in  all  this  that  he  understood  and  lived 
was  to  go  with  Rose;  and  I  had  let  that  slip, 
so  that  I  could  come  here  and  show  off  how 
well  I  looked,  with  my  words — and  my  hair — 
done  different. 

The  place  where  he  lived  every  day  of  his 
life  was  a  place  that  I  had  never  gone  in  or 
guessed  or  dreamed  could  be.  He  was  living 
for  some  other  reason  than  I  had  ever  found 
out  about.  And  I  had  thought  that  I  was 
almost  ready  to  see  him  now! 

As  far  as  I  could,  I  drew  back  toward  the 
partition,  out  of  his  possible  sight.  But  I 
heard  the  last  act  as  I  had  never  heard  music 
before — because  I  heard  it  as  he  was  hearing 
it,  as  we  all  over  the  house  might  have  been 
listening  to  it.     I  listened  with  him.     And  all 


184    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

the  anguish  and  striving  in  the  world  were  in 
the  music  and  the  music's  way  of  trying  to 
make  this  clear.  It  said  it  so  plain  that  I 
wondered  all  of  us  didn't  stand  up  in  our  places 
and  "go  at  it  like  gods." 

Before  the  curtain,  and  in  the  high  moment 
of  the  act,  they  came  for  us.  Mrs.  Dudley 
liked  to  go  down  and  give  her  carriage  number 
early,  especially  when  a  supper  was  on.  So 
we  went,  and  I  left  him  there.  I  saw  him  last 
against  the  crude  setting  of  a  prison,  with  the 
music  remembering  back  to  what  it  had  been 
saying  long  before. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THERE  is  nothing  more  wonderful  in  the 
world  than  the  minute  when  all  that  you 
have  always  been  seeing  begins  to  look  like 
something  else.  It  happened  to  me  when  I  sat 
down  at  our  table  at  the  Ritz-Carlton,  a  table 
which  had  been  reserved  for  us  and  was  set 
with  orchids  and  had  four  waiters,  like  moons. 

I  sat  between  Gerald  and  Mr.  Baddy  Dudley. 

I  looked  up  at  Grerald,  and  I  thought, 
"You're  very  kind.  I  owe  you  a  great  deal. 
But  is  this  the  way  you  are?  Were  you  like 
this  all  the  time?" 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Mr.  Baddy  Dudley.  I 
wanted  to  say  to  him:  "Ugh!  You're  all 
locked  up  in  your  body,  and  you  can't  drop 
it  away.    Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?" 

Across  the  table  was  Mrs.  Dudley,  in  flesh- 
pink  and  pearls.  I  thought  of  her  dancing,  in 
185 


186    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

the  leopard  skin  and  the  pointed  crown ;  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  she  was  dead,  a  long  time 
ago,  and  here  she  was,  and  she  didn't  dream 
it  herself. 

Here  and  there  were  the  others ;  they  seemed 
to  fill  the  table  with  their  high  voices  and  their 
tip-top  speech  and  their  strong,  big  white 
shoulders.  They  were  so  kind — ^but  I  won- 
dered if  otherwise  they  had  ever  been  bom 
at  all,  and  what  made  them  think  that  they 
had? 

Of  them  all,  Antoinette  was  the  best,  because 
she  was  just  sketched — yet.  She  could  rub 
herself  out  and  do  it  nearly  all  over  again; 
and  something  about  her  looked  anxious  and 
hopeful,  and  as  if  it  was  waiting  to  see  if  that 
wasn't  what  she  would  do. 

Then  I  tried  to  look  myself  in  the  face. 
And  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  didn't  find  any  of 
me  there  at  all. 

I  ate  what  they  brought  me;  I  answered 
what  they  said  to  me.  But  all  the  time  they 
were  all  as  far  off  as  the  other  tables  of  folk, 
and  the  waiters,  whom  I  didn't  know  at  all. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING     187 

And  all  the  while  I  lcK)ked  around  the  big 
white  room,  and  up  at  the  oval  of  the  ceiling, 
and — "This  whole  thing,  and  us  with  it,  is 
sitting  on  the  chests  of  the  rest  of  them,"  I 
thought.  I  wondered  about  Rose.  If  she 
walked,  she  must  have  got  home  about  the 
time  I  got  to  the  opera.  Rose !  She  was  real, 
and  she  was  awake.  She  had  come  all  that 
way  to  get  me  to  help  her  to  wake  the  rest. 
Was  that  what  he  meant  by  digging  like  a 
devil  ? 

When  we  left  the  hotel,  toward  two  o'clock, 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  motor  on  with 
the  rest.  When  we  reached  the  Massys',  the 
time  was  already  still,  because  it  expected 
morning.  The  Dudleys  and  Mr.  Baddy  Dudley 
had  come  up  with  us.  When  at  last  I  got 
the  window  open  in  my  room,  I  was  in  time 
to  see  a  little  lift  of  gray  in  the  sky  beyond  the 
line  of  trees  on  the  terrace. 

"The  new  day,"  I  said.  "The  new  day. 
Cosma  Wakely,  have  you  got  enough  backbone 
in  you  to  stand  up  to  it?" 

It  was  surprising  how  little  backbone  it  took 


188    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

the  next  afternoon.  What  I  had  to  do  was 
what  I  wanted  to  do.  All  the  forenoon,  no 
one  was  stirring.  It  was  eleven  before  coffee 
came  to  our  rooms.  I  had  heard  Mr.  Dudley 
calling  a  dog  somewhere  about,  so  I  had  kept 
to  my  room  for  fear  of  meeting  him.  At  one 
o'clock  there  were  guests  for  luncheon.  When 
they  started  back  to  town  I  told  Antoinette 
that  I  wanted  to  go  with  them.  I  meant  to 
get  to  Rose's  meeting. 

"Nonsense !"  she  said.  "Have  you  forgotten 
dinner?  And  the  dancing?" 

I  said  that  I  was  worried  about  my  examina- 
tions, and  that  I  wanted  to  get  back.  When 
I  first  came  to  the  Massys'  I  would  have  told 
them  the  truth. 

The  long  ride  down  was  like  a  still  hand 
laid  on  something  beating.  I  liked  being  alone 
as  much  as  once  I  had  dreaded  it. 

We  had  been  late  in  setting  off.  It  was  al- 
most six  o'clock  when  I  reached  the  school. 
When  I  had  eaten  and  dressed  and  was  on  my 
way  to  the  hall,  it  was  already  long  past  the 
time  that  Rose  had  named  for  the  meeting. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    189 

All  the  girls  were  in  their  seats.  There  were 
only  Rose  and  one  or  two  more  on  the  plat- 
form. The  hall  was  low  and  smoky.  The 
girls  were  nervous  about  the  doors,  and  ques- 
tioned everybody  that  come  in.  The  girl  at 
the  door  began  to  question  me  when  I  went  in, 
but  Rose  saw  me. 

"Let  her  come  in,"  she  called  out.  "She's 
our  next  speaker!" 

And  when  I  heard  the  ring  in  her  voice,  and 
saw  her  face  and  felt  her  hand  close  on  mine, 
and  knew  how  glad  she  was  that  I  had  come, 
I  was  happy.  Happier  than  I  had  ever  once 
been  at  the  Massys*. 

I  went  right  up  on  the  platform.  And  my 
head  and  my  heart  had  never  been  so  full  of 
things  to  say.    And  the  girls  listened. 

Did  you  ever  face  a  roomful  of  girls  who 
work  in  a  factory?  Any  factory?  But  espe- 
cially in  a  factory  where,  instead  of  treating 
them  like  one  side  of  the  business,  the  owners 
treat  them  like  necessary  evils  ?  You  wouldn't 
ever  have  supposed  that  the  heads  of  the  Car- 
ney factory  were  dependent  the  least  bit  on  the 


190    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

girls  who  did  the  work  for  them.  You'd  have 
thought  that  it  was  just  money  and  machinery 
and  the  buildings  that  did  the  work,  and  that 
the  girls  were  being  let  work  for  a  kindness.  I 
never  could  understand  it.  When  the  business 
needed  more  money,  the  owners  gave  it  to  it. 
When  the  machinery  needed  oil  or  repairs  or 
new  parts,  it  got  them.  When  the  buildings  had 
to  have  improvements,  they  got  them.  But 
when  the  girls  needed  more  light  or  air  or 
wages  or  shorter  hours  or  a  cleaner  place  to  be, 
or  better  safety,  they  just  got  laughed  at  and 
rowed  at  and  told  to  learn  their  places,  or  not 
told  anything  at  all.  And  more  girls  come, 
younger,  fresher,  that  didn't  need  things. 

"If  I  was  only  my  machine,"  I  had  heard 
Rose  say  that  night,  "I'd  have  plenty  of  oil 
and  wool  and  the  right  shuttles.  But  I'm 
nothing  but  the  operator,  and  the  machine  has 
the  best  care.  And  if  there  comes  a  fire — the 
maMnery  is  insured.    But  we  ain't." 

I  have  not  much  remembrance  of  what  I  said 
to  the  girls  that  night.  There  must  have  been 
a  hundred  of  them  in  the  hall.    And  I  know 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    191 

that  as  I  stood  there,  looking  into  their  faces, 
knowing  them  as  I  knew  them,  with  their 
striving  for  a  life  like  other  folks,  there — 
suddenly  ringed  round  them — I  saw  the  double 
tier  of  boxes  of  the  night  before,  and  I  heard 
his  voice : 

"...  This  whole  place  here,  and  we  with 
them,  are  on  the  chests  of  the  others." 

I  had  no  bitterness.  But  I  had  the  extreme 
of  consciousness  that  I  had  ever  reached — not 
of  myself,  but  of  all  of  us,  and  of  the  need 
of  helping  on  our  common  growth.  They  were 
to  stand  together,  inviolably  together,  for  the 
fostering  of  that  growth,  I  told  them.  An 
injury  to  one  was  an  injury  to  them  all — 
because  they  were  together.  And  the  employ- 
ers of  whom  they  made  their  demands  were 
no  enemies,  but  victims,  too,  who  must  be 
helped  to  see,  by  us  who  happen  to  have  had 
the  good  fortune  to  be  able  to  see  the  need 
first. 

I  remember  how  I  ended.  I  heard  myself 
saying  it  as  if  it  were  some  one  else  speaking: 

"Fm  with  you.    You  must  let  me  plan  with 


192    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

you.  But  I  can't  plan  with  a  few  of  you,  when 
the  rest  don't  care.    I  want  you  all." 

When  the  evening  was  over,  and  I  had  found 
those  I  knew  and  met  those  whom  I  didn't 
know,  and  had  set  down  my  name  with  the  list 
that  grew  before  the  door,  made  up  of  those 
who  were  willing  "not  to  fight,  but  to  help," 
I  stood  for  a  minute  in  the  lower  hallway 
with  Rose. 

**Oh,  Cosma,"  she  said,  "I've  got  to  tell  you 
something,  I  done  you  dead  wrong.  I  thought 
last  night  that  you'd  gone  over — ^that  you 
didn't  care  any  more." 

"I  didn't,"  I  said.  "It  had  got  me—the 
thing  that  gets  folks." 

Next  day  I  rehearsed  my  oration  for  the 
Savage  Prize  contest.  When  I'd  finished.  Miss 
Spot  told  me  that  I  needn't  practise  it  any 
more  before  her — just  to  say  it  over  in  my 
room  through  the  three  days  until  the  contest 
was  to  take  place. 

"You  deliver  it  as  well  as  I  could  myself, 
Cosma,"  she  said. 

So  I  walked  back  to  my  room,  tore  up  my 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    193 

oration,  and  set  to  work  to  write  another.  My 
head  and  my  heart  were  full  of  what  that  other 
was  to  be.  I  had  been  beating  and  pricking 
with  it  all  night  long  after  the  meeting. 

Savage  Prize  Day  was  a  great  day  at  the 
school.  We  were  given  engraved  invitationsJo 
send  out.  I  sent  mine  to  Mrs.  Bingy  and  Rose 
and  the  girls  in  the  factory.  I  knew  they 
couldn't  come ;  but  I  knew,  too,  they'd  like  get- 
ting something  engraved.  Only  it  happened 
that  not  only  Mrs.  Bingy  came — Rose  and  the 
girls  came,  too.  Handed  to  them  with  their 
pay  envelope  had  been  the  notice  to  quit.  Some- 
body had  told  the  superintendent  about  that 
meeting.  Six  of  the  leaders  were  let  out.  I 
saw  them  all  sitting  there  when  I  got  up  on 
the  platform.  And  they  gave  me  strength, 
there  in  all  that  lot  of  well-dressed,  soft- voiced 
folks.  They  were  dear  people,  too.  Only  they 
were  dear,  different.  And  they  didn't  under- 
stand anything  whatever  about  life,  the  way 
Mrs.  Bingy  and  Rose  and  I  did.  And  that 
wasn't  those  folks'  fault  either.  But  they 
seemed  to  take  credit  for  it. 


194    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Antoinette  had  an  oration.  Hers  was  on 
"Our  Boat  Is  Launched;  But  Where's  the 
Shore  ?"  It  told  about  how  to  do.  It  said  every- 
body should  be  successful  with  hard  work.  It 
said  that  industry  i^  the  best  policy  and  bound 
to  win.  It  said  that  Alnerica  is  the  land  where 
all  who  will  only  work  hard  enough  may  have 
any  position  they  like.  It  said  that  everything 
is  possible.  Everybody  enjoyed  Antoinette's 
oration.  She  had  some  lovely  roses  and  vio- 
lets, and  all  her  relatives  sat  looking  so  pleased. 
Her  father  had  promised  her  a  diamond 
pendant,  if  she  got  the  prize. 

There  was  another  on  "Evolution."  She 
said  we  should  be  patient  and  not  hurry  things, 
because  short-cuts  wasn't  evolution.  I  won- 
dered what  made  her  take  it  for  granted  God 
is  so  slow.  But  I  liked  the  way  her  bracelets 
tinkled  when  she  raised  her  arm,  and  I  think 
she  did,  too. 

Then  it  was  my  turn.  I  hadn't  said  anything 
to  Miss  Spot  about  changing  my  oration.  I 
thought  if  I  could  do  it  once  to  please  them, 
I  could  do  it  again.    I  worked  hard  on  mine, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    195 

because  the  prize  was  a  hundred  dollars;  and 
if  Mrs.  Carney  wouldn't  take  it,  I  wanted  it 
for  Rose  and  the  girls.  I  thought  Miss  Spot 
would  be  pleased  to  think  I  did  it  without  any 
rehearsing.  I  imagined  how  she  would  tell 
visitors  about  it,  during  ice-cream. 

I  didn't  keep  sL  copy  of  it,  but  some  of  it 
was  like  this : 


I  decided  to  write  about  "Growing,"  because 
I  think  that  growing  is  the  most  important 
thing  in  the  world.  I  believe  that  this  is  what 
we  are  for.  But  some  ways  to  grow  aren't  so 
important  as  others. 

For  example,  I  was  bom  on  a  farm  near  a 
little  town.  At  first  my  body  grew,  but  not 
my  mind.  Only  through  district  school.  Then 
it  stopped  and  waited  for  something  to  happen 
— going  away,  getting  married,  et  cetera.  Soon 
I  met  somebody  who  showed  me  that  my  mind 
must  keep  on  growing. 

It  seems  queer,  but  nobody  had  ever  said 
anything  to  me  about  growing.  All  that  they 
said  to  me  was  about  "behaving."  And  espe- 
cially about  doing  as  I  was  told. 

Then  I  came  to  the  city  and  I  worked  in  a 
factory.  Right  away  I  found  out  that  there 
the  last  thing  they  thought  about  was  anybody 
growing.  They  thought  chiefly  about  hurrying. 


196    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Not  a  word  was  ever  said  about  growing.  And 
yet,  I  suppose,  all  the  time  that  was  our  chief 
business. 

One  day  I  went  to  the  Museum,  and  I  saw 
a  large  white  statue  of  Apollo  Belvedere.  The 
other  people  there  seemed  to  know  about  him. 
I  didn't  know  about  him,  or  any  of  the  rest  of 
the  things ;  and  I  went  outside  and  cried.  How 
was  I  to  get  to  know,  when  nobody  ever  said 
anything  to  me  about  him?  Or  about  any  of 
the  things  I  didn't  know.  I  wasn't  with  people 
who  knew  things  I  didn't  know.  Or  who  knew 
anything  about  growing. 

Then  I  came  to  this  school.  I've  been  here 
and  I've  learned  a  great  deal.  Countries  and 
capitals  and  what  is  shipped  and  how  high  the 
mountains  are,  and  how  to  act  and  speak  and 
eat.  I  know  that  you  have  to  have  all  these. 
But  I  am  writing  about  some  education  that 
shows  you  how  to  be  on  account  of  what  life  is. 
And  about  how  to  arrange  education  so  that 
every  one  can  have  it,  and  not  some  of  us  girls 
have  it,  and  some  of  us  not  have  anything  but 
the  machines.    .    .    . 

I  hadn't  meant  to  say  much  about  this.  But 
all  of  a  sudden,  while  I  stood  there  speaking 
to  that  dressed-up  roomful,  with  all  the  girls 
down  in  front  soft  and  white,  and  taken  care 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    197 

of  and  promised  diamond  pendants,  it  come 
over  me — the  difference  between  them  and 
Rose  and  the  girls  there  on  the  back  seats.  And 
before  I  knew  I  was  going  to,  I  began  to  get 
outside  my  oration  as  I  planned  it,  and  to  talk 
about  those  girls,  and  about  where  did  their 
chance  come  in.  .  .  .  And  I  finished  by  beg- 
ging these  girls  here,  that  had  every  chance 
to  grow,  to  do  something  for  the  other  girls 
that  didn't  have  a  chance  to  grow  and  never 
would  have  a  chance. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  have  it  and  why  they 
don't,"  I  said.  "Mjaybe  when  we  grow  up  and 
get  out  in  the  world  we'll  understand  that  bet- 
ter. But  it  can't  be  right  the  way  it  is.  And 
can't  we  help  them  ?" 

Some  clapped  their  hands  when  I  was  done. 
There  was  another  oration  on  "Success,"  and 
one  on  "Opportunity,"  and  then  came  the 
judges*  decision. 

It  was  a  big  disappointment.  I  thought  the 
other  orations  were  so  wishy-washy,  it  didn't 
seem  possible  mine  could  have  been  any  more 


198    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

so.  But  it  must  have  been,  because  only  one 
of  the  judges  voted  for  me.  He  said  something 
about  "not  so  much  subject  matter  as  original- 
ity of  thought."  The  other  two  judges  voted 
for  Antoinette.  That  night,  by  special  delivery, 
she  got  her  diamond  pendant. 

Rose  wrote  a  note  on  the  back  of  her  pro- 
gram. "Oh,  Cosma,  this  is  the  most  wonder- 
ful thing  that  ever  happened  to  the  girls.  I 
never  knew  anybody  else  ever  heard  about  us 
or  cared  about  us.    We'll  never  forget." 

When  I  got  back  to  the  dormitory,  somebody 
was  waiting  for  me  in  the  reception-room,  and 
it  was  Gerald.  He  drew  me  over  to  a  window, 
talking  all  the  way. 

"Cosma,"  he  said,  "by  jove,  I  never  heard 
anything  like  that.  I  say — how  did  you  ever 
get  them  to  let  you  do  it?  .  .  .  They'd  never 
seen  it?  Rich — rich!  You  sweet  dove  of  an 
anarchist,  you — " 

"Don't  Gerald,"  I  said. 

"Ripping,"  said  he,  "simply  ripping!  I  never 
saw  anything  so  beautiful  as  you  before  all  that 
raft.    You  looked  like  the  well-known  angels, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    199 

Cosma.  And  you  ought  to  see  my  portrait  of 
you  now !    You  dear !" 

"Don't,  Gerald,"  I  said. 

He  stared  at  me.  "I  say — ^you  aren't  taking 
to  heart  that  miserable  hundred  dollars !  Cosma 
dearest!  Oh,  I'm  mad  about  you  .  .  .  this 
June,  .  .  .  this  June — " 

"Please,  please,  Gerald,"  I  said.  "Don't  you 
see?  Those  girls  there  to-day.  They're  your 
sort  and  your  people's  sort.  I'm  not  that.  .  .  ." 

He  set  himself  to  explain  something  to  me. 
I  could  see  it  in  his  sudden  attitude.  "Look 
here,  Cosma,"  he  said;  "don't  you  understand 
the  joy  it  would  be  for  a  man  to  have  a  hand 
in  training  the  girl  he  wants  to  have  for  his 
wife?"  At  that,  I  looked  at  him  with  atten- 
tion. "Let  me  be,"  he  went  on,  "your  teacher, 
lover,  husband.  Gad,  think  what  it  will  be  to 
have  the  shaping  of  the  woman  you  will  make! 
Can't  you  understand  a  man  being  mad  about 
that?" 

I  answered  him  very  carefully.  "A  man, 
maybe.    But  not  the  woman." 

"What?"  said  Gerald  blankly. 


200    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"I'll  make  myself,"  I  said.  "And  then  maybe 
I'll  pick  out  a  man  who  has  made  himself. 
And  if  we  love  each  other,  we'll  marry." 

"But,"  he  said,  "the  sweetness  of  having  you 
fit,  day  after  day,  into  the  dream  that  I  have  of 
what  you  are  going  to  be — " 

So  then  I  told  him.  "Gerald,"  I  said,  "I 
wasn't  meant  to  live  your  Hfe.  I've  got  to 
find  my  job  in  the  world — whatever  that  is. 
I've  got  to  get  away  from  you — from  you  all — 
from  everybody,  Gerald!" 

"Good  heavens!"  he  said.  "Cosma,  you're 
tired — ^you're  nervous — " 

I  looked  at  him  quite  calmly.  "If,"  I  said, 
"when  I  state  some  conviction  of  mine,  any 
man  ever  tells  me  again  that  I'm  nervous,  I'll 
tell  him  he's — ^he's  drunk.  There's  just  as  much 
sense  in  it." 

I  gave  him  both  my  hands.  "Gerald,"  I 
said,  "you  dear  man,  your  life  isn't  my  life.  I 
don't  want  it  to  be  my  life.    That's  all." 

Afterward,  when  I  went  up-stairs,  with  that 
peculiar,  heavy  lonesomeness  that  comes  from 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    201 

the  withdrawal  of  this  particular  interest  in  this 
particular  way,  I  wondered  if  the  life  I  was 
planning  was  made  up  of  such  withdrawals, 
such  hurts,  such  vacancies. 

And  then  I  remembered  the  way  I  had  felt 
when  I  walked  home  from  the  meeting  that 
Sunday  night;  and  it  seemed  to  me  there  are 
ways  of  happiness  in  the  world  beside  which 
one  can  hardly  count  some  of  the  ways  of 
pleasure  that  one  calls  happiness  now. 

In  my  room  that  night  I  found  a  parcel.  It 
was  roughly  wrapped  in  paper  that  had  been 
used  before.  From  it  fell  a  white  scarf  and  a 
paper. 

"Dear  Cossy  (the  letter  was  written  in  pen- 
cil) I  am  going  to  send  you  this  whether  you 
get  the  prize  or  whether  you  don't.  If  you 
didn't  get  it,  I  guess  you  need  the  present 
worse.  It's  the  nubia  I  wore  on  my  wedding 
trip.  I  sha'n't  want  it  any  more.  I  enclose 
one  dollar  and  your  Pa  sends  one  dollar  to  get 
you  something  with  for  yourself.    With  love, 

"Ma. 

"P.  S.  My  one  dollar  is  egg  money,  so  it's 
my  own  it  ain't  from  him  I  raised  them." 


202    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Suddenly,  as  I  read,  there  came  over  me  the 
first  real  longing  that  I  had  ever  had  in  my  life 
for  Katytown,  and  for  home. 

One  more  incident  belonged  to  Savage  Prize 
Oration  Day. 

Neither  Miss  Manners  nor  Miss  Spot  said 
anything  to  me  about  my  oration.  But  in  com- 
mencement week  Mrs.  Carney  came  in  to  see 
me.  ^ 

"Cosma,"  she  said,  "I  have  a  letter  here 
which  I  must  show  you.'* 

I  read  the  letter.    It  said: 


"Dear  Mrs.  Carney  : 

"After  due  consideration  we  deem  it  advis- 
able to  inform  you  that  in  our  judgment  the 
spirit  and  attitude  of  Cosma  Wakely  are  not 
in  conformity  with  the  spirit  of  our  school. 

"We  have  ever  striven  to  maintain  here  an 
attitude  of  sweetness  and  light,  and  to  exclude 
everything  of  a  nature  disturbing  to  young 
ladies  of  immature  mind.  Cosma  is  not  only 
opinionated,  but  her  knowledge  and  experience 
are  out  of  harmony  with  the  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience of  our  clientele.  We  have  regretfully 
concluded  to  suggest  to  you,  therefore,  that  she 
be  entered  elsewhere  to  complete  her  course. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    203 

"Thanking  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Carney,  we 
beg  to  remain, 

"Respectfully  yours, 

"Matilda  Manners, 
"Emily  Spot." 


CHAPTER   XII 

I  DROP  five  years — so  much  in  the  living, 
so  little  in  the  retrospect! 

Upon  that  time  I  entered  with  one  thought : 
The  university.  At  the  school  I  had  always 
been  ahead  of  my  class,  a  meager  enough  ac- 
complishment there.  I  had  browsed  through 
the  books  of  the  third-  and  fourth-year  girls, 
glad  that  I  found  so  little  that  I  could  not  have 
mastered  then.  Now,  at  Mrs.  Carney's  sug- 
gestion and  with  her  help,  I  took  some  tutor- 
ing ;  and,  what  with  overwork  and  summer  ses- 
sions and  entering  "special"  once  more,  I  made 
the  university,  and,  toward  the  close  of  my 
fifth  year,  was  nearing  my  graduation.  A  part 
of  my  expenses  I  had  paid  myself.  And  how 
did  I  do  that?  By  making  lace  for  Mrs.  Ked- 
die  Bingy! 

Life  is  so  wonderful  that  it  makes  you 
204 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    205 

afraid,  and  it  makes  you  glad,  and  it  makes 
you  sure. 

In  the  first  year  after  I  left  Miss  Spot  and 
Miss  Manners,  I  read  in  one  of  the  papers  that 
John  Ember  had  gone  to  China  on  an  expedi- 
tion which  was  to  spend  two  years  in  the  in- 
terior. I  wouldn't  have  believed  that  the  pur- 
pose could  have  dropped  so  completely  out  of 
everything — school,  town,  life,  I  myself,  be- 
came something  different.  Until  then  I  had 
not  realized  how  much  I  had  been  living  in  the 
thought  that  I  was  somewhere  near  him;  that 
any  day  I  might  see  him  in  the  street,  in  the 
cars,  anywhere.  It  was  hard  to  get  used  to 
knowing  that  somebody  coming  down  at  the 
far  end  of  the  street  could  not  possibly  be  he; 
that  no  list  of  names  in  the  paper  could  have 
his  name. 

But  just  as,  that  first  morning,  I  knew  that 
he  wouldn't  want  me  to  give  up  and  cry,  so  now 
I  knew  that  I  had  to  go  ahead  anyway,  and  do 
the  best  I  could.  It  was  what  he  would  have 
wanted.  And  I  had  only  just  begun  to  make 
myself  different.     I  had  only  just  shown  my- 


206    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

self  how  much  there  was,  really,  to  be  different 
about.  > 

It  was  wanting  to  see  him  so  much  that 
made  me  take  out  my  book  again,  after  a  long 
lapse,  and  read  it  over.  The  first  pages  were 
just  as  I  wrote  them,  on  the  wrapping-paper 
that  came  around  the  boys'  overalls.  Then 
there  were  the  sheets  of  manila  paper  that  I 
had  bought  at  the  drug  store  near  the  first  little 
room  that  Mrs.  Bingy  and  I  took — I  remem- 
ber how  I  had  got  up  early  and  walked  to  the 
factory  one  morning  to  save  the  nickel  for  the 
paper.  Then  a  few  pages  that  I  had  made  at 
ihe  school  on  empty  theme  books;  and  some 
more  on  the  Massys'  guest  paper,  gray  with 
lavender  lining  and  a  Paris  maker's  name. 
Now  I  went  on  writing  my  book  with  a 
typewriter  that  I  was  learning  to  use,  since 
a  man  on  Mrs.  Bingy's  floor  let  me  borrow  his 
machine  when  he  went  out  in  the  mornings. 
My  whole  history  was  in  those  different  kinds 
of  paper  in  my  book. 

Those  typewritten  pages  are  of  interest 
chiefly  to  myself.     They  are  like  the  thirty 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    207 

pages  that  I  threw  away  because  they  told 
only  about  my  going  from  one  factory  to 
another.  Only  now  the  typewritten  pages 
were  not  about  events  at  all,  but  about  the 
things  that  went  on  in  me.  And  those  I  can 
sum  up  in  a  few  words:  For  the  important 
thing  is  that  in  those  pages  I  was  recording 
my  growing  understanding  of  something  which 
Rose,  out  of  her  sordid  living,  had  done  so 
much  to  teach  me:  that  my  life  was  not  im- 
portant just  because  it  was  the  life  of  Cosma 
Wakely  alone,  but  it  was  important  in  propor- 
tion as  it  saw  itself  a  part  of  the  life  about  it — 
the  life  of  school,  of  working  women  and  men, 
of  all  men  and  women,  of  all  beings.  I  began 
to  wonder  not  so  much  how  I  could  make  my 
own  individual  "success,"  whatever  that  means, 
as  how  I  could  take  my  place  in  the  task  that 
we're  all  doing  together — and  of  finding  out 
what  that  task  is. 

That,  in  short,  is  what  those  years  meant  to 
me.  The  incidents  do  not  so  much  matter. 
Nobody  gets  this  understanding  in  the  way 
that  any  one  else  gets  it.    It  is  the  individual 


208    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

quest,  the  individual  revelation.  Experience, 
education,  love,  the  mere  wear  and  tear  of 
living,  all  go  toward  this  understanding.  Most 
of  all,  love.  I  think  that  for  me  the  university 
and  the  entire  faculty  were  only  auxiliary 
lights  to  the  light  that  shone  on  me,  over  seas 
and  lands,  from  the  interior  of  China! 

Of  all  the  wonder  learned  by  loving,  no 
wonder  is  more  exquisite  than  the  magic  by 
which  one  absent  becomes  a  living  presence. 
This  man  had  so  established  himself  before 
me  that  it  seemed  to  me  I  knew  his  judgments. 
The  simplicity  of  this  new  friend  of  mine,  the 
mental  honesty  of  that  one,  the  accuracy  of  a 
third  who  made  me  careful  of  my  facts — these 
John  Ember  would  approve.  I  always  knew. 
The  self-centering  or  pretense  of  others;  I 
knew  how  he  would  smile  at  these,  shrug  at 
them,  but  never  despise  them,  because  of  his 
tender  understanding  of  all  life.  Everybody 
with  whom  I  was  thrown  who  was  less  devel- 
oped than  I,  I  understood  because  I  had  been 
Cossy  Wakely.  Every  one  who  was  more  de- 
veloped,  I   tried  passionately  to  understand. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    209 

These,  and  books,  plays,  music,  "society's"  at- 
tempt to  amuse  itself.  Rose  and  the  factory, 
the  whole  panorama  of  my  life  passed  every 
day  before  the  still  tribunal  of  this  one  man, 
who  knew  nothing  about  them. 

The  two  years'  absence  of  the  expedition  to 
China  lengthened  to  three  years,  and  it  was 
well  toward  the  close  of  the  fourth  year  when 
Mrs.  Carney  told  me  he  might  be  turning 
home.  But  the  summer  and  autumn  passed, 
and  I  heard  nothing  more.  January  came,  and 
I  was  within  a  few  months  of  graduation. 

Then  something  happened  which  abruptly 
tied  up  the  present  to  my  old  life. 

I  came  home  from  class  one  afternoon  to 
Mrs.  Bingy's  flat  and  found  on  the  table  a  let- 
ter for  me.    It  was  from  Luke,  in  Katytown. 

"Dear  Cossy  [the  letter  said] ,  I  hate  to  ask 
you  to  do  something,  but  you're  the  only  one. 

Lena's  gone She  left  this  letter  for 

me.  I  send  it  so  you'll  know.  And  she's  gone. 
It  says  she's  in  the  city.  I  ain't  got  the 
money  to  go  there  with.  Cossy,  could  you  find 
her?  I  thought  maybe  you  could  find  her. 
She's  got  some  folks  there  and  I  think  maybe 


210    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

she'll  go  there.  It's  an  awful  thing.  I  hate 
to  ask  you  but  you  are  the  only  one  please 
answer.  Luke.'' 

The  address  which  he  sent  me  was  far  up- 
town, and  it  took  me  over  to  a  row  of  tene- 
ments near  the  East  River.  It  was  dark  when 
I  left  the  subway  station.  And  when  I  found 
the  street  at  last  it  smelled  worse  than  the 
Katytown  alleys  in  summer. 

In  the  doorway  of  what  I  thought  was  the 
number  I  was  looking  for,  a  man  and  a  woman 
were  standing.  I  asked  if  this  was  the  address 
I  wanted,  and  the  woman  answered  that  it  was. 

"Isn't  it  Lena?"  I  said. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"It's  Cossy,"  I  answered. 

"Yes,  I  know.  What  do  you  want?"  she 
asked  again. 

I  told  her  that  I  would  wait  up-stairs  for  her, 
and  then  the  man  went  away,  and  she  came 
with  me.  We  climbed  the  stairs  and  went 
along  a  hall  to  a  parlor  that  smelled  of  damp 
upholstery.  She  lighted  a  high  central  gas-jet 
that  flared  without  a  burner. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    211 

She  had  always  been  pretty,  and  she  was 
that  now,  though  her  face  had  lines  made  by 
scowling.  Her  neck  and  shoulders  and  breast 
were  almost  uncovered,  because  her  waist  was 
so  thin  and  so  low-cut.  Her  little  arms  were 
bare  from  above  the  elbow,  and  her  little  fea- 
tures looked  still  smaller  under  a  bright  irregu- 
lar turban  with  a  feather  like  a  long  sword. 

"Luke  asked  me  to  find  you,"  I  said.  "He 
said  he  didn't  have  the  money  to  come  him- 
self." 

"Poor  Luke,"  said  Lena  unexpectedly. 
"He's  got  the  worst  of  it.     But  I  can't  help  it." 

"You've  just  come  up  for  a  little  while, 
though,  haven't  you?"  I  asked  her.  "And 
then  you're  going  back?" 

She  shrugged,  and  all  the  bones  and  cords 
of  her  neck  and  chest  stood  out.  The  shadow 
of  her  feather  kept  running  over  her  face,  like 
a  knife  blade. 

"What's  the  use  of  your  talking  like  the 
preacher?"  she  said.     "You  got  out  yourself." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "but—" 

"You  knew  before  and  I  didn't  know  till 


212    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

after,"  she  added.  "That's  all.  I  couldn^t 
stand  it,  either." 

I  sat  still,  wondering  what  to  say.  ' 

"We  moved  in  there  with  his  mother 
and  father,"  Lena  said.  "His  father  was  good 
to  me;  but  he  was  sick  and  just  one  more 
to  take  care  of.  His  mother — well,  I  know  it 
was  hard  for  her,  but  she  was  bound  I  should 
do  everything  her  way.  She  was  a  grand 
good  housekeeper — and  I  ain't.  I  hate  it.  She 
got  the  rheumatism  and  sat  in  her  chair  all 
day  and  told  me  how.  I  tell  you  I  couldn't 
stand  it—" 

Her  voice  got  shrill,  and  I  thought  she  was 
going  to  cry.  But  she  just  threw  back  her 
head  and  looked  at  me. 

"And  now  in  seven  months,"  she  said, 
"something  else.  That  was  the  last  straw.  I 
says  now  I'd  never  get  out.  I've  come  up 
here  for  the  last  good  time  I  may  ever  have. 
If  Luke  won't  take  me  back,  he  needn't.  I 
don't  care  what  becomes  of  me  anyway." 

"Oh,  Lena,"  I  said. 

"Don't  you  go  giving  yourself  airs,"  she 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    213 

said.  "You  got  away.  We've  heard  about 
your  school  and  your  smartness.  But  sup- 
posin'  you  hadn't.  Do  you  think  you'd  have 
stayed  in  Luke's  mother's  kitchen  slavin'?" 

"No,  Lena,"  I  said.  "I  honestly  don't 
think  I  would." 

The  gas  without  any  burner  flickered  over 
the  big-figured  carpets  and  chairs  and  table 
cover,  the  mussy  paper  flowers  and  the  rusty 
gas  stove  and  the  crayon  portraits.  I  almost 
felt  as  if  I  were  there  in  Lena's  place. 

"I  s'pose,  though,  you're  goin'  to  tell  me  to 
go  back,"  she  said.  "Well,  best  spare  your 
breath." 

It  came  to  me  what  I  had  to  do,  just  as 
simply  as  things  almost  always  come. 
'  "I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  any  such  thing," 
I  said.  "I  wondered  if  you  wouldn't  come 
down  and  stay  with  Mrs.  Bingy  and  me  while 
you're  here.     We've  got  an  extra  cot." 

She  tossed  her  head.  "You're  laughing  at 
me,"  she  said. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  want  you.  So  would  Mrs. 
Bingy." 


214    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

When  she  understood,  something  seemed  to 
go  out  of  her.  She  shrank  down  in  the  chair, 
and  that  look  of  hers  went  away  from  her. 

"I'd  love  to,''  she  said.  "Oh,  Cossy— I 
thought  when  I  got  here  things'd  be  different. 
But  I've  been  here  four  days,  and  I  ain't  really 
had  any  fun  here  either !" 

I  told  her  to  get  her  things  ready,  and  when 
she  went  to  tell  her  mother's  aunt,  with  whom 
she  was  staying,  her  aunt  came  in  and  made  us 
both  have  some  supper  first.  The  table  was 
in  the  kitchen,  and  the  aunt  was  cooking  flap- 
jacks over  the  stove.  Her  husband  was  a 
tunnel  man,  and  so  was  his  son.  There  were 
two  girls  younger  than  Lena ;  one  of  them  was 
ticket-seller  in  a  motion-picture  house,  and  one 
of  them  was  "at  home." 

"Don't  you  work?"  I  said  to  her. 

"Hessie's  going  to  be  married,"  said  her 
mother,  proud  and  final. 

"Believe  me,  she'd  better  get  a  job  instead,'* 
said  Lena — and  I  saw  the  girl  who  was  ticket- 
seller  turn  a  puzzled  face  to  her,  but  the  bride- 
to-be  laughed.    I  was  glad  that  I  was  going  to 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    215 

take  Lena  away  from  them.  Whatever  is  to 
be  learned  by  women,  it  seems  to  me  that  they 
should  never  have  for  teacher  a  bitter  woman, 
however  wise. 

Lena  had  felt  a  good  deal — I  could  see  that ; 
but  she  knew  nothing.  To  her,  her  own  case 
was  just  one  isolated  case,  and  due  to  her  bad 
luck.  She  had  no  idea  that  she  was  working 
at  a  problem,  any  more  than  Mrs.  Bingy  and  I 
had  when  we  left  Katytown.  Or  any  more 
than  her  mother's  aunt,  who  was  thick  and 
flabby  and  bothered  about  too  much  saleratus 
in  the  flap-jacks.  I  thought  of  the  difference 
between  Lena  and  Rose.  They'd  got  some- 
thing so  different  out  of  a  hard  life.  Rose 
felt  hers  for  all  women ;  but  Lena  felt  hers  for 
just  Lena. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  flat,  Mrs.  Bingy 
had  the  gas  log  burning  and  she  was  working 
at  her  lace.  The  child  was  awake,  and  play- 
ing about.  Lena  stood  in  the  passage  door 
and  looked.  We  had  some  plain  dark  rugs  and 
a  few  pieces  of  willow  furniture  that  we 
had  bought  on  the  instalment  plan.     I  had 


216    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

made  some  flowered  paper  shades  for  the  lights. 
Mrs.  Carney  had  given  me  one  lovely  colored 
print.  I  had  my  school-books  and  some  li- 
brary books  on  the  shelves.  And  we  had  a 
red  couch  cover  Mrs.  Bingy  had  bought — 
"shut  her  eyes  and  bought,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  ain't  it  nice?"  Lena  said. 

"Luck  sakes,"  said  Mrs.  Bingy.  "It  it  ain't 
Lena-Curtsey-that-was.  Well,  if  here  ain't 
the  whole  neighborhood!" 

I  followed  Lena  into  my  little  bedroom  that 
night. 

"Lena,"  I  said,  "does  Luke  know  what  you 
told  me?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Wouldn't  you  better  write  and  tell  him?" 
I  asked.  "And  tell  him  just  why  you  want  to 
get  away  for  a  while  ?" 

"He'd  think  I  was  crazy,"  she  answered. 
"They'd  talk  it  over.  His  ma'd  say  I  was  a 
wicked  woman — and  I  donno  but  what  I  am. 
But  I  will  be  crazy  if  I  stay  stuck  there  in  that 
kitchen  all  those  months — " 

She  began  to  cry.     I  understood  that  the 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    217 

best  thing  to  do  was  to  let  her  stay  here 
quietly  with  us  and  give  her  whatever  little 
pleasure  we  could. 

She  let  me  write  to  Luke  and  tell  him  that 
she  was  going  to  visit  us  for  a  while.  I  told 
her  I  would  take  her  to  a  school  play  the  next 
night,  and  we  looked  over  her  things  to  decide 
what  she  was  to  wear. 

"Lord,  Cossy,"  she  said,  "it's  been  months 
since  Fve  went  to  bed  thinking  I  was  going  to 
,have  any  fun  the  next  day." 

Afterward  I  found  Mrs.  Bingy  sitting  with 
her  head  on  her  hand. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  "if  I  done  it." 

"What,  Mrs.  Bingy ?"I  asked. 

"When  any  woman  in  Katytown  leaves  her 
husband,  I'll  always  think  that  if  I  hadn't  gone, 
'  maybe — " 

"Mrs.  Bingy,"  I  said,  "suppose  you  had 
stayed.  Either  he'd  have  murdered  you  and 
the  baby,  too,  maybe,  or  else  you  might  have 
had  another  child  or  two — with  a  drunken 
brute  for  a  father.  If  you've  helped  anybody 
like  you  to  get  away,  you  be  glad !" 


218    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

*T  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you  some- 
times, Cossy,"  she  said.  "Sometimes  what 
you  say  sounds  so  nice  I  bet  it's  wicked." 

She  took  the  child,  gathered  him  up  with 
a  long  sweep  of  her  arm  and  tossed  him,  with 
one  arm,  on  her  shoulder.  She  was  huge  and 
brown,  as  she  used  to  be;  but  now  her  life  had 
rounded  out  her  gauntness,  and  she  looked  fed 
and  rested  and  peaceful.  To  see  her  in  the 
little  sitting-room  of  the  flat,  busy  and  happy 
and  cheerful,  was  like  seeing  her  soul  with 
another  body,  or  her  body  with  another  soul, 
or  both.     I  never  got  over  the  wonder  of  it. 

The  school  play  gave  Lena  nothing  of  what 
she  pathetically  called  "fun."  And  when  she 
went  with  me  to  the  factory  dances,  she  turned 
up  her  nose  at  the  men,  not  one  of  whom  was, 
she  said,  a  "dresser."  She  told  me  that  she 
hated  to  be  with  anybody  who  knew  more  than 
she  did.  In  a  fortnight  she  went  back  to 
Luke*s  aunt  to  stay,  I  suspected,  as  long  as  her 
small  money  held  out  at  the  motion-picture 
shows. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  just  before  Lena  left  us  that  Mrs. 
Carney  telephoned  one  day  for  me  to  come 
to  her  house  to  dinner  on  the  following  night. 
"He's  back!"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  hung  up  the 
receiver ;  for  by  now  Mrs.  Carney  had  guessed 
something  of  John  Ember's  place  in  my  life, 
though  we  had  never  spoken  of  it.  But  he 
was  not  back,  now,  any  more  than  he  had  been 
all  the  other  times  that  I  had  leaped  at  the 
hope,  in  these  three  years.  It  was  some  one 
else  who  had  come  back. 

Mr.  Arthur  Carney  was  in  Europe  that  year, 
and  I  went  there  that  night  without  thinking 
that  there  was  such  a  person  as  he  in  the  world, 
so  long  had  I  forgotten  his  existence.  But 
Mrs.  Carney  told  me  that  she  had  had,  the  day 
before,  a  telegram  to  say  that  he  had  landed 
in  New  York  and  would  be  at  home  by  the  end 
of  the  week.  While  we  were  waiting  for  din- 
219 


220    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

ner  to  be  announced,  he  unexpectedly  appeared 
in  her  drawing-room.  And  he  said  to  her, 
before  all  those  people : 

"You  see,  my  dear,  IVe  come  to  surprise 
you.  I've  come  to  see  how  well  you  amuse 
yourself  while  I  am  away." 

He  said  that  he  would  go  in  to  dinner  with 
us  just  as  he  was.  He  was  welcomed  by 
everybody,  and,  of  course,  Mrs.  Carney  intro- 
duced him  to  me.  She  could  have  had  no  bet- 
ter answer  to  what  he  had  just  said  to  her. 

"May  I  present  my  husband,  Miss  Wakely  ?" 
she  said.  "Arthur,  she  was  once  at  the  fac- 
tory.    You  may  remember — " 

He  had  grown  stouter,  and  his  face  was 
pink,  and  his  head  was  pink  through  his  light 
hair.  He  carried  a  glass  and  stared  at  me 
through  it,  and  then  he  dropped  his  glass  and 
said : 

"My  word,  you  know.  Then  we've  met  be- 
fore, we  two." 

"I've  never  had  the  pleasure  of  really  meet- 
ing you,  Mr.  Carney,"  I  said. 

"You  parted  from  me  anyway.     I  remem- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    221 

ber  that,"  he  said.  And  presently  he  came 
back  to  where  I  was.  "Here's  my  partner, 
please,  madame,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Carney. 

So  I  sat  beside  him.  Of  course  I  wasn't 
afraid  of  him  any  more  and  I  wasn't  really 
annoyed  by  him.  I  could  just  study  him  now. 
And  I  thought:  "If  only  every  girl  whom  a 
man  follows,  as  you  followed  me,  could  just 
study  him — like  a  specimen." 

"That  was  a  devilish  clever  trick  you  played 
on  me,  you  know,"  he  said,  when  we  were 
seated.     "How'd  you  come  to  think  of  it?" 

I  said :  "That  was  easy.  I  could  think  of 
it  again." 

"You  could,  could  you?"  said  he.  "Well, 
what  I  want  to  know  is  what  you're  doing 
here?" 

"Mrs.  Carney  must  tell  you  that,"  I  re- 
minded him. 

He  stared  at  me.  "You're  a  cool  one,"  he 
said.  "Come,  aren't  you  going  to  tell  me 
something  about  yourself?  Why,  I  must  be 
just  about  the  first  friend  you  had  in  this  little 
old  town." 


222    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  had  been  wondering  if  I  dare  say  some  of 
all  that  was  in  my  mind,  and  I  concluded  that  I 
did  dare — rather  than  hear  all  that  was  in  his. 
So  I  said : 

"Mr.  Carney,  you  have  been  asking  me 
some  questions.  Now  I  wonder  if  I  may  ask 
you  some?" 

"Sure,"  he  said.  "Come  ahead.  Fd  be 
flattered  to  get  even  that  much  interest  out  of 
you." 

"It's  something  Fve  thought  a  good  deal 
about,"  I  told  him,  "and  hardly  anybody  can 
ever  have  asked  about  it,  first  hand.  But  you 
must  know,  and  you  could  tell  me." 

"ril  tell  you  anything  you  want  to  know," 
he  said.  "Even  how  much  I  still  think  of 
you." 

It  was  hard  to  keep  my  temper,  but  I  did, 
because  I  really  wanted  to  know.  Every 
woman  must  want  to  know,  who's  been 
through  it. 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me,"  I  said,  "just  how  a 
man  figures  everything  out  for  himself,  when 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    223 

he  begins  to  hunt  down  a  girl — as  you  hunted 
mer 

He  stared  again,  and  then  he  burst  out 
laughing. 

"Bless  you,"  he  said,  "he  doesn't  figure.  He 
just  feels." 

"But  now,  think,"  I  urged.  "After  all,  you 
have  brains — " 

"Many,  many  thanks,  little  one,"  he  said. 

" — and  sometimes  you  must  use  them.  In 
those  days,  didn't  you  honestly  care  what  be- 
came of  me?  Didn't  you  think  about  that 
at  all?" 

"You  can  bet  I  did,"  he  said.  "Didn't  I 
make  it  fairly  clear  what  I  wanted  to  become 
of  you?" 

I  wondered  whether  I  could  go  on.  But  I 
felt  as  if  I  must — because  here  was  something 
that  is  one  of  the  big  puzzles  of  the  world. 

"But  after?"  I  said.     "After?" 

He  shrugged. 

"I  wasn't  borrowing  trouble,  you  under- 
stand?" he  said. 


224    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"No,"  I  told  him.  "No.  You  were  just 
piling  it  up  for  me — ^that  was  all.  Now  see 
here :  In  these  five  years  I've  had  school  as  I 
wanted  to  have  then.  I  know  more.  I'm 
better  worth  while.  I'm  better  able  to  take  my 
place  among  human  beings.  I've  begun  to 
grow — as  people  were  meant  to  grow.  Truly 
— were  you  willing  to  take  away  from  me 
every  chance  of  that— and  perhaps  to  see  me 
thrown  on  the  scrap-heap — ^just  to  get  what 
you  wanted?" 

He  looked  at  me,  and  then  around  his  table, 
where  his  wife's  twenty  guests  were  sitting — 
well-bred,  charming  folk,  all  of  them. 

"My  God,"  he  said,  "what  a  funny  dinner- 
table  conversation." 

"Isn't  it?"  I  agreed.  "These  things  are 
usually  just  done — they  aren't  very  often  said. 
But  I  wish  that  you  could  tell  me.  I  should 
think  you'd  be  interested  yourself.  Don't  you 
see  that  weVe  got  a  quite  unusual  chance  to 
run  this  thing  down?" 

For  the  first  time  I  saw  in  his  eyes  a  look 
of  real  intelligence — ^the  sort  of  intelligence 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    225 

that  he  must  have  used  with  other  men,  in 
business,  in  poHtics,  in  general  talk.  For  the 
first  time  he  seemed  to  me  not  just  a  male,  but 
a  human  being. 

"Seriously,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  don't  sup- 
pose that  one  man  in  ten  thousand  ever  thinks 
of  what  is  going  to  become  of  the  woman. 
Of  course  there  are  the  rotters  who  don't  care. 
Most  of  them  just  don't  think.  I  didn't 
think." 

"I'm  glad  to  believe,"  I  said,  "that  you 
didn't  think.  I've  wondered  about  it.  But 
will  you  tell  me  one  thing  more:  If  men 
don't  think,  as  you  say,  why  is  it  that  they  are 
so  much  more  likely  to  hunt  down  'unpro- 
tected' women,  working  women,  women  alone 
in  a  city — ^than  those  who  have  families  and 
friends?" 

There  was  something  terrible  in  the  ques- 
tion, and  in  the  way  that  he  answered  it.  He 
served  himself  to  a  delicious  ragout  that  was 
passed  to  him,  he  sipped  and  savored  the  wine 
in  his  glass,  and  then  he  turned  back  to  me : 

"They  are  easier,"  he  said  simply,  "because 


226    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

so  many  of  them  don't  get  paid  enough  to  live 
on.     They're  glad  to  help  out." 

"And  yet,"  I  said,  "and  yet,  Mr.  Carney, 
you  own  a  factory  where  three  hundred  and 
fifty  of  these  girls  don't  get  paid  enough." 

"Oh,  well,  murder!"  he  said.  "Now  you're 
getting  on  to  something  else  entirely.  We 
can't  do  anything  to  wages.  They're  fixed 
altogether  by  supply  and  demand — supply  and 
demand.  You  simply  take  these  things  as  you 
find  them— that's  all." 

"You  took  me  to  that  factory,"  I  reminded 
him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  were  looking  for  a 
job,  weren't  you?  Was  that  three  dollars  per 
better  than  nothing — or  wasn't  it?" 

I  kept  still.  Something  was  the  matter,  we 
seemed  to  go  in  a  circle.     Finally  I  said : 

"Anyway,  Mr.  Carney,  I  thank  you  for 
answering  me.     That  was  a  good  deal  to  do." 

He  sat  turning  his  wine-glass,  one  hand 
over  his  mouth. 

"You  do  make  me  seem  a  blackguard,"  he 
said,  "and  yet — on  my  honor — if  you  think  I 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    227 

have  any — I  didn't  think  I  was.  I  didn't  mean 
anybody  any  harm.  Damn  it  all,  I  was  just 
trying  to  find  a  little  fun." 

He  looked  at  me.  And  all  at  once,  I  knew 
how  he  must  have  looked  when  he  was  a  little 
boy.  I  could  see  the  little  boy's  round  eyes  and 
full  red  cheeks,  and  the  way  he  must  have 
answered  when  he'd  done  something  wrong. 
And  it  didn't  seem  to  me  that  he'd  ever  grown 
any  older.  I  understood  him.  I  understood 
most  men  of  his  type.  And  I  believed  him. 
He  was  just  blundering  along  in  the  world's 
horrible,  mistaken  idea  of  fun — ^that  means 
death  to  the  other  one. 

Before  I  knew  it,  my  eyes  brimmed  full  of 
tears.     He  saw  that,  and  sat  staring  at  me. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

1HAD  gone  wondering  how  I  should  see  him 
at  last,  and  what  we  should  say  to  each 
other.  It  never  once  occurred  to  me  that  we 
might  not  meet  again,  or  that  when  we  did  meet 
it  would  mean  merely  the  casual  renewing  of  a 
casual  occasion.  As  for  me  everything  moved 
from  the  time  when  I  had  met  John  Ember,  so 
everything  moved  toward  the  time  when  I 
should  see  him  again.  I  pictured  meeting  him 
on  the  street,  at  Mrs.  Carney's  house,  about 
the  university.  I  pictured  him  walking  into  a 
class  room  to  give  one  of  the  afternoon  lec- 
tures— older,  his  hair  a  little  grayed,  and  yet  so 
wonderfully  the  same  as  when  he  had  spoken 
to  me  there  on  the  country  road.  And  I  could 
imagine  that  if  I  said  my  name  to  him  he  would 
have  to  stop  and  hunt  through  his  mind  for  any 
remembrance  of  that  breakfast  and  that  walk 
228 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    229 

which  were,  so  far,  the  principal  things  that 
had  ever  happened  to  me. 

Then  I  used  to  dream  that  he  did  remember. 

"Mr.  Ember,  I'm  Cosma  Wakely.  You 
won't  remember — but  I  just  wanted  to  say 
'thank  you'  for  what  you  did." 

And:  "Remember.  My  dear  child,  I've 
been  looking  for  you  ever  since.  Sit  down — I 
want  to  talk  with  you." 

Once  I  saw  his  picture  in  a  magazine,  look- 
ing so  grave  and  serious,  and  I  liked  to  know 
that  there  was  that  Katytown  morning,  and 
that  I  knew  him  in  a  way  that  none  of  the  rest 
did;  that  I'd  been  with  him  on  that  lonely, 
early  road  and  had  heard  him  talk  to  me — no 
matter  how  stupid  I'd  acted — and  that  we'd 
sat  together  over  breakfast  in  the  yard  of  the 
Dew  Drop  Inn.  Just  in  that  I  had  one  of  the 
joys  of  a  woman  who  loves  a  great  man,  and 
understands  him  as  all  those  who  sit  and  look 
up  to  him  can  never  understand  him.  I  felt 
as  if  something  of  me  belonged  to  John  Ember. 

And  when  I  did  see  him,  it  was  as  if  he  had 
never  been  away. 


230    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  had  been  twice  to  see  Lena,  and  found  her 
in  the  stale-smelling  rooms  of  her  aunt,  each 
time  at  work  upon  some  tawdry  finery  of  her 
own.  One  day  I  thought  about  begging  her 
to  go  with  me  to  a  gallery  that  I  had  found 
where  hung  a  picture  which  it  seemed  to  me 
must  speak  to  her. 

She  went  readily  enough — she  was  always 
eager  to  go  somewhere  in  a  pathetic  hope  that 
some  new  excitement,  adventure,  would  await 
her.  We  walked  to  the  gallery,  through  the 
gay  absorbed  crowd  on  the  avenue ;  and  as  we 
moved  among  them,  the  chattering  gaiety  with 
which  we  had  left  her  aunt's,  fell  from  her, 
the  lines  deepened  about  her  mouth,  and  finally 
she  fell  silent. 

Almost  no  one  was  in  the  little  gallery.  I 
led  her  to  the  central  bench,  and  we  sat  down 
facing  the  picture  that  I  had  brought  her  to 
see:  A  woman  in  a  muslin  gown  holding  a 
child.  I  guessed  how  the  Madonnas,  in  their 
exquisite  absorption  and  in  radiance  and  in 
crimson  and  blue  would  have  for  her  little  to 
say,  as  a  woman  to  a  woman.     But  this  girl, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    231 

in  the  sipiple  line  and  tone  of  every  day,  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms,  seemed  to  me  to  hold  a 
great  fact,  and  to  offer  it. 

Lena  looked  at  her,  and  her  face  did  not 
change.  I  waited,  without  saying  anything, 
feeling  certain  that  whatever  I  said  she  was 
in  a  mood  to  contradict.     So  she  spoke  first. 

"It  looks  grand,"  she  said,  "till  you  think  of 
the  work  of  washin'  and  ironin'  the  baby's 
clothes.  And  her  own.  You  can  bet  I  shan't 
keep  it  in  white." 

"Look  at  the  baby's  hand,"  I  Said,  "around 
her  one  finger." 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  the  owner  of  the 
little  gallery  came  in,  with  a  possible  patron. 
They  stood  near  us,  looking  at  a  landscape  by 
the  artist  of  the  Madonna. 

"...  a  wise  restraint,"  he  was  saying. 
"Restraint  is  easy  enough — it  is  like  closing 
one's  mouth  all  the  time.  The  thing  is  to  close 
it  wisely !  It  is  not  so  much  the  things  that  he 
elects  not  to  include  in  the  composition  as  it 
is  his  particular  fashion  of  omission — with- 
out self-consciousness,  with  no  pride  of  choice. 


232    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  should  say  that  of  all  the  young  artists  now 
working  in  America,  he  comes  the  closest  to 
giving  place  to  the  modern  movements,  seeing 
them  as  contributions  but  not  often  as  ulti- 
mates — " 

"I'm  goin',"  said  Lena. 

I  followed  her.  On  the  sidewalk,  she  tossed 
her  head  and  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"No  such  talk  as  that  guy  was  giving  in 
mine,"  she  said.  "He  feels  smart — thafs 
what  ails  him.  Cossy,  I  hate  folks  like  that. 
I  hate  'em  when  they  pretend  to  know  so 
much.  .  .  ." 

"What  if  they  do  know,  Lena?"  I  said. 

"Then  I  don't  want  to  be  with  'em,"  she 
answered.  "That's  easy,  ain't  it  ?  Sometimes 
I  almost  hate  you.  Ain't  they  some  store 
where  they's  a  basket  of  trimmin'  remnants 
we  could  look  at?" 

I  took  her  to  a  shop,  and  she  walked  among 
the  shining  stuffs,  forgetting  me.  She  loved 
the  gowns  on  the  models.  She  felt  contempt 
for  no  one  who  was  dressed  more  beautifully 
than  she — only  for  those  who  "knew  more" 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    233 

than  she.  I  thought  how  surely  beauty  and 
not  knowledge  is  the  primal  teacher,  univer- 
sally welcomed.     Beauty  is  power. 

But  the  remnant  basket  did  not  please  her, 
and  we  stepped  into  the  street  to  seek  another 
shop.  And  standing  beside  a  motor  door, 
close  to  the  way  we  passed,  were  Mrs.  Carney 
and  John  Ember. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  then  the  door 
shut  upon  them  and  they  drove  away.  But  I 
had  seen  him  as  I  had  dreamed  him,  a  little 
older,  but  always  in  that  brown,  incomparable 
youth.  He  was  bending  his  head  to  listen — 
that  was  the  way  I  always  thought  of  him. 
He  was  giving  some  unsmiling  assent.  He 
was  here,  and  no  longer  across  the  world.  I 
stood  still,  staring  after  the  car. 

"Gee,  that  was  a  swell  blue  coat,"  said  Lena. 
*T  don't  blame  you  for  standing  stock-still.  I 
bet  I  could  copy  that.  .  .  .  Come  on!" 

I  went  with  her.  But  I  hardly  heard  her 
stream  of  comment  and  bitter  chatter.  And 
yet  it  was  not  all  of  John  Ember  that  I  was 
thinking,  nor  was  I  filled  only  with  my  singing 


234    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

consciousness  that  he  was  back.  I  was  seeing 
again  Mrs.  Carney's  face  as  she  had  turned 
to  speak  to  him;  glowing,  relaxed,  open  like  a 
flower. 

Presently  I  was  aware  that  Lena  was  not 
beside  me.  I  looked  and  she  was  before  the 
window  of  a  shop.  I  crossed  to  her,  and 
then  I  saw  what  she  was  looking  at — no  array 
of  cheap  blouses,  price-marked,  or  of  flaming 
plumes.  She  stood  before  the  window  of  a 
children's  outfitting  shop. 

I  said  nothing,  nor  did  she.  She  looked, 
and  I  waited.  The  white  things  were  exqui- 
site and,  I  felt,  remote.  They  were  so  dainty 
that  I  feared  they  would  alienate  her,  because 
they  were  so  much  beyond  her.  But  to  my 
surprise,  she  turned  to  me : 

"Could — could  we  go  in  here,"  she  asked, 
"even  if  we  didn't  buy  anything?'* 

We  went  in.  Within  the  atmosphere  was 
still  more  compact  of  delicate  fabric  and  fash- 
ioning and  color.  An  assured  young  woman 
came  forward. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    235 

"Leave  us  look  at  some  of  your  baby 
things,"  said  Lena. 

We  looked.  I  shall  never  forget  Lena's 
hands,  ungloved,  covered  with  rings  and  cheap 
blue  and  red  stones,  as  those  hands  moved  in 
and  about  the  heaped-up  fineness  of  the  little 
garments.  Of  some  of  the  things  she  did  not 
know  the  names.  The  pink  and  blue  crocheted 
sacks  and  socks  brought  her  back  to  them  again 
and  again. 

"I  used  to  could  crochet,"  she  said  at  length. 

But  it  was  before  a  small  white  under-skirt 
that  she  made  her  real  way  of  contact.  She 
fingered  the  white  simple  trimming,  and  her 
look  flew  to  mine. 

"My  God,"  she  said,  "that's  'three-and-five.' 
I  can  do  that  like  lightning." 

"Get  some  thread,"  I  said,  "and  make 
some.  .  .  ." 

She  had  made  nothing  yet.  She  had  told 
me  that.  Now  she  lifted  and  touched  for  a 
moment  among  the  heaped-up  things  that  they 
brought  her. 


236    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"I've  got  five  dollars,"  she  said,  "that  I  was 
savin'  to  get  me  a  swell  hat,  when  I  go  back. 
I  might—" 

I  said  nothing.  It  seemed  to  me  that  a 
great  thing  was  happening  and  that  Lena  must 
do  it  alone.  After  a  little  I  priced  the  dimities 
and  muslins  in  her  hearing. 

"If  you  want  to,  Lena,"  I  said,  "you  could 
come  back  to  the  flat  and  Mrs.  Bingy  would 
help  you  to  make  the  things.  .   •  ." 

"Would  five  dollars  get  the  cloth  for  two 
dresses  and  two  skirts  and  some  crochet  wool  ? 
Some  pink  wool?"  asked  Lena. 

So  she  bought  these  things,  with  the  five 
dollars  that  hung  about  her  neck  in  a  little  bag. 
As  we  went  out  the  door,  she  saw  a  bassinet, 
all  fine  whiteness  and  flowered  blue  and  lace 
edging. 

"It's  a  clothes  basket!"  she  cried  excitedly. 
"Don't  you  see  it  is  ?  What's  the  matter  with 
me  making  one  like  that?"  She  turned  to 
me,  laughing  as  boisterously  as  I  had  heard  her 
laugh  in  the  Katytown  post-office  when  more 
traveling  men  than  usual  were  sitting  outside 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    237 

the  door  of  the  Katytown  Commercial  House. 
"Land,"  she  said,  "when  I  get  back  home,  I 
bet  I'll  have  everything  but  the  baby !" 

I  sat  beside  her  in  the  street-car,  and  she 
tried  to  make  a  hole  in  the  paper  of  her  parcel 
to  see  again  the  color  of  the  wool  she  had 
bought  for  the  little  sack.  There  was 
thread,  too,  for  the  "three-and-five."  Lena's 
eyes  were  bright  and  eager.  She  said  little  on 
the  way  home,  and  she^made  no  objection  to 
going  with  me  to  the  flat.  When  we  unrolled 
the  parcel  on  Mrs.  Bingy's  dining-room  table, 
and  I  saw  Lena  stooping  and  planning,  I 
thought  of  the  picture  that  we  had  left  in  the 
little  gallery.  There  was  a  look  in  Lena's 
eyes  that  I  had  never  seen  there  before.  I 
heard  Mrs.  Bingy  and  her  chattering  happily 
over  the  patterns,  and  I  thought  that  beauty 
has  many  ways  of  power. 

Then,  the  next  day,  I  had  a  telegram  from 
Mrs.  Carney. 

"Come  to  see  me  to-day,"  she  said.  "Im- 
portant." 

I    hurried    to    her,    dreaming,    as    I    had 


238    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

dreamed  all  night,  of  whom  I  might  find  with 
her.  But  she  was  alone,  and  in  some  happy 
excitement  that  was  beautifully  becoming  to 
her,  who  was  usually  so  grave  and  absent. 

"Cosma,"  she  said,  "what  would  you  say  to 
leaving  the  university  before  you  have  your 
degree  ?" 

I  knew  that  very  well.  "I  would  say,"  I 
said,  "that  I  don't  care  two  cents  about  the 
degree,  if  I  can  get  the  right  position  with- 
out it." 

"I  hoped  you  would  say  that!"  she  cried. 
"Then  listen:  John  Ember  has  asked  me  to 
find  a  secretary  for  him.  Will  you  go  and  try 
for  the  place?" 


CHAPTER   XV 

HIS  library  had  not  many  books,  not  many 
pictures,  and  no  curtains  at  all.  The 
nine  o'clock  sun  fell  across  the  dull  rugs,  and 
some  blue  and  green  jars  on  a  shelf  shone  out 
as  if  they  were  saying  something.  I  waited 
for  him  at  the  hour  of  the  appointment  that 
Mrs.  Carney  had  made  for  me.  And  for  me 
some  of  the  magic  and  the  terror  of  the  time 
were  in  that  she  had  not  told  him  who  I  was. 
When  his  little  Japanese  had  gone  to  call  him, 
I  sat  there  in  a  happiness  which  made  me  over, 
which  made  the  whole  world  seem  like  another 
place.  I  heard  his  step  in  the  passage,  and  I 
wondered  if  I  was  going  to  be  able  to  speak 
at  all.  I  rather  thought  not,  until  the  very 
moment  that  I  tried. 

He  came  toward  me,  bowing  slightly,  and 
motioning  me  to  my  chair.     I  looked  at  him, 
with  a  leaping  expectation  in  my  heart,  and,  I 
239 


240    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

am  afraid,  in  my  eyes.  His  own  eyes  met  mine 
levelly,  courteously,  and  without  a  sign  of 
recognition. 

"Now,  let  us  see,"  he  said  briskly,  and  sat 
down  before  me.  "About  how  much  experi- 
ence have  you  had?" 

"I  have  never  been  anybody's  secretary,  if 
that  is  what  you  mean,"  I  said,  when  I  could. 

"It  is  not  in  the  least  what  I  mean,"  he  re- 
turned. "If  you  happen  not  to  have  been  any- 
body's secretary,  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  meant, 
'What  can  you  do?'" 

"I  can  typewrite,"  I  managed  to  tell  him. 
"And  almost  always  I  can  spell." 

"That's  good,"  he  said,  "though  far  from 
essential.     Now  what  else?" 

I  thought  for  a  moment.  "I  can  keep  still," 
I  said.  "I  don't  believe  there's  anything  else 
I  can  do." 

"That  makes  an  admirable  beginning,"  he 
observed  gravely.  "Do — do  you  take  down 
all  instructions?     In  notes?" 

"I  can,  if  you  like,"  I  said.  "But  I  can 
never  read  my  own  notes." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    241 

"You  don't  do  shorthand?"  he  cried. 

For  the  first  time,  as  I  shook  my  head,  it 
occurred  to  me  that  I  might  not  meet  his  re- 
quirements. 

"Well,  now,"  he  was  saying,  "that  is  good 
news.  I  was  afraid  you  might  come  with  a 
ruled  note-book,"  he  explained.  "The  flap 
kind." 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  begin  at  both  ends  of  those. 
And  then  I  never  can  find  the  notes." 

"Precisely,"  he  said.  "Now  about  your 
head.    Is  it  likely  to  ache  every  few  minutes  ?" 

"Only  when  I  read  the  map  in  an  automo- 
bile," I  answered. 

"Fortunately,"  he  assured  me,  "there  will  be 
little  of  that  in  my  requirements.  Now  the 
honest  truth:  Can  you  work  hard?  Can 
you  work  like  a  demon  if  you  have  to?" 

"Yes.     Unless  it  has  figures  in  it,"  I  said. 

"It  hasn't,"  he  said.  "Or  at  least,  when  it 
has,  I  shall  have  to  do  those  myself,  for  my 
sins.  But  I  warn  you,  there's  some  pretty  stiff 
work  ahead.  It's  a  labor  survey  of  China. 
And  I  want  somebody  to  do  ten  hours  a  day 


242    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

most  of  the  time,  showing  how  Hke  dogs  the 
Chinese  workmen  are  treated." 

Ten  hours  a  day  with  him!  I  sat  silent, 
trying  to  take  in  the  magnitude  of  my  joy. 
"It's  too  much?"  he  hazarded. 
"Oh!"  I  cried.  "No.  Why  no!"  He 
looked  up  inquiringly.  "See  the  women  in  this 
town,"  I  added,  "who  work  ten  hours  a  day 
and  more." 

"We're  going  to  get  along  extremely  well, 
then,"  he  said,  "if  you  don't  mind  my  damned 
irritability — I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  shock- 
ingly irritable — but,"  he  paused,  leaning  for- 
ward, still  grave,  "let  me  tell  you,  confidentially, 
now,  that  I  always  know  it,  underneath.  You 
can't  mind  what  I  say  too  awfully,  you  know, 
if  I  put  you  in  possession  of  that  fact  to  start 
with.     Can  you?" 

"I  shan't  mind,"  I  said. 
"Well,  you  will,  you  know,"  he  warned  me, 
"but  that  at  least  ought  to  help.     I  suppose  it 
wouldn't  be  possible  for  you  to  go  to  work 
now?    This  moment?" 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    243 

"Yes,  it  would,"  I  said,  trying  hard  not  to 
say  it  too  joyfully. 

"What?"  he  exclaimed.  "Really?  With- 
out breaking  an  engagement?  Or  telephon- 
ing anybody?  This  is  wonderful.  Oh,  by 
the  way.  Let  me  see  your  hand  when  you 
write." 

He  brought  me  a  pad  and  pen  and  ink. 

"Write  anything,"  he  said.     "Write." 

I  wrote.  He  watched  me  absorbedly  and 
drew  a  sigh  that  might  have  been  relief. 

"That's  all  right,  too,"  he  told  me.  "I  had 
a  young  woman  here  helping  me  once  who 
wrapped  her  fingers  round  the  pen  when  she 
wrote,  in  a  fashion  that  drove  me  mad.  I  used 
to  go  out  and  dig  in  the  garden  till  my  secre- 
tary had  gone  home,  and  then  come  in  and  get 
down  to  work  myself." 

I  put  away  my  hat,  and  merely  to  shut  the 
door  on  the  closet  that  held  umbrellas  and  rain- 
coats was  an  intimacy  that  gave  me  joy.  I 
had  starved  for  him,  thirsted  for  him,  and  two 
days  ago  had  not  known  that  he  was  not  in 


244    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

China  still;  yet  here  was  this  magic,  as  life 
knows  so  well  to  manufacture  magic. 

*T'm  afraid  I  don't  remember/'  he  said, 
"what  Mrs.  Carney  told  me  your  name  is?" 

While  we  talked,  it  had  been  gradually 
fastening  itself  in  my  mind  that  it  would  have 
been  remarkable  if  he  had  recognized  me.  A 
country  girl,  in  a  starched  white  dress,  with 
her  hair  about  her  face,  acting  like  a  common 
creature  on  the  Katytown  road,  and  later,  to 
his  understanding  working  in  a  New  York  fac- 
tory, could  have  no  connection  with  a  woman 
of  twenty-six,  in  well-fitting  clothes,  who 
came  to  him  six  years  after,  as  his  secretary. 
I  told  him  my  last  name,  and  he  said  it  over 
as  if  it  had  been  Smith. 

In  a  comer  of  the  library,  by  the  window 
overlooking  the  little  garden,  he  set  me  to  sort- 
ing an  incredible  heap  of  notes,  made  illegi- 
bly on  paper  of  varying  sizes,  unnumbered,  but 
every  sheet  scrupulously  dated.  These  cov- 
ered two  years  and  a  half,  and  their  arrange- 
ment was  anything  but  chronological. 

"Note-books  have  their  uses,"  he  admitted, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    245 

surveying  that  hopeless  pile.  "But  not  the  flap 
kind,"  he  added  hastily. 

I  set  to  work,  and  as  I  touched  the  papers 
which  had  been  with  him  all  those  days  when 
I  had  seen  the  sun  off  for  China,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  must  tell  somebody :  "It's  true  then ! 
Excepting  for  the  misery  in  the  world,  you  can 
be  perfectly  happy!"  I  had  always  doubted 
it.  You  do  doubt  it,  until  you  have  a  moment 
of  perfect  happiness  for  your  own.  And  this 
was  the  first  one  that  I  had  ever  known.  He 
was  at  some  proofs,  and  he  promptly  forgot 
my  existence.  After  all  these  years,  after  the 
few  rare  glimpses  of  him  which  had  been  food 
for  me  and  a  kind  of  life,  here  I  was  where 
by  lifting  my  eyes  I  could  see  him,  where 
countless  times  a  day  I  could  hear  him  speak. 
Better  than  all  this,  and  infinitely  dearer,  I  was, 
however  humbly,  to  help  him  in  his  work.  I, 
Cosma  Wakely,  who,  on  a  day,  had  tried  to 
flirt  with  him. 

I  went  at  the  notes  fearfully.  What  if  I 
could  not  understand  them  ?  There  were  gods, 
I  knew,  whose  written  word  is  all  but  measure- 


246    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

less  to  man.  I  own  that  his  notes  were  far 
from  clear.  Perhaps  it  was  just  because  I  so 
much  wanted  it  that  I  understood  them.  More- 
over, I  found,  to  my  intense  delight,  that  I 
some  way  felt  what  he  was  writing.  This  I 
can  not  explain,  but  every  one  who  loves  some 
one  will  know  how  this  is. 

In  half  an  hour  he  wheeled  suddenly  in  his 
chair  at  the  table.  I  caught,  before  he  spoke, 
his  look  of  almost  boyish  ruefulness. 

"Miss  Wakely,*'  he  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon 
like  anything.     What  salary  do  you  have?'* 

I  felt  my  face  turn  crimson.  This  had  oc- 
curred to  me  no  more  than  it  had  to  him. 

When  it  was  settled,  he  rose  and  came  to- 
ward the  comer  where  I  worked,  and  stood 
looking  down  at  me.  For  a  moment  I  was 
certain  that  now  he  knew  me. 

"Miss  Wakely,"  he  said  very  gently,  "may 
I  ask  you  one  thing  more  ?  Do  you  wear  black 
sateen  aprons?" 

"I  loathe  all  aprons,"  I  said. 

"And  paper  sleeve-shields,  too?"  he  in- 
quired earnestly.    "Held  by  big  rubber  bands  ?" 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    247 

"Paper  sleeve-shields  held  by  big  rubber 
bands,"  I  said,  "I  loathe  even  more  than  black 
sateen  aprons." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "do  you  know,  there  was 
one  young  woman  once — "  and  he  went  back 
to  his  task  obliviously. 

At  one  o'clock  I  found  a  little  tea-shop  in 
the  neighborhood,  where  food  was  scandal- 
ously high,  after  the  manner  of  unassimilated 
tea-shops.  I  remember  the  clean  little  room, 
with  a  rose  on  my  table  and  shelves  of  jelly 
over  my  head. 

"How  much  better  that  is  than  some  books," 
I  said  to  the  pink  waitress,  because  I  had  to 
speak  to  somebody,  so  that  I  could  smile.  The 
world  is  not  yet  adjusted  with  that  simplicity 
which  permits  one  to  sit  in  public  places  alone 
and,  very  happily,  to  smile.  And  this,  I 
realized,  was  what  I  had  been  doing. 

I  was  obliged  to  walk  twice  the  transverse 
length  of  the  blocks  cut  by  the  little  studio 
street,  before  it  was  time  to  go  back.  As  I  was 
returning  the  second  time,  I  came  face  to  face 
with  Mr.  Ember  carrying  a  paper  sack. 


248    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"Torchido,"  he  explained,  "lectures  in  a 
young  ladies'  seminary  just  at  noon.  It  is  not 
convenient  for  me.  But  I  mind  nothing  so 
much  as  the  fact  that  he  will  not  let  me  have 
dried  herrings.  They — they  offend  Torchido. 
They  do  not  offend  me.  So  I  go  out  and  buy 
herrings  of  my  own  and  hide  them  in  the  book- 
case.    But  he  nearly  always  smells  them  out." 

I  wanted  to  say:  "You  can't  buy  any- 
where such  good  ones  as  we  used  to  have  in 
Katytown."  Instead,  I  said  something  in  dis- 
paragement of  Torchido's  taste,  and  reflected 
on  the  immeasurable  power  of  dried  herrings 
in  one  human  being's  appeal  to  another. 

I  went  back  to  work  in  my  comer,  and  he 
ate  herrings  and  buns,  unabashed,  at  his  library 
table.  When  I  saw  Torchido  coming  along 
the  garden  wall,  I  said:  "Torchido — he's 
coming!"  and  Mr.  Ember- swept  the  remains 
of  his  lunch  into  the  sack  and  dropped  it  into 
one  of  the  glorious  green-blue  jars. 

Torchido  came  in  for  orders,  took  them, 
stood  for  a  moment  plainly  sniffing  the  air, 
pointedly  opened  a  far  window,  and  respect- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    249 

fully  retreated.  Whereat  the  first  faint  smile 
that  I  had  seen  met  my  look,  when  the  door 
had  closed. 

It  was  a  heavenly  day.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  some  heritage  of  my  young  girlhood  had, 
after  all,  not  quite  escaped  in  all  that  sordid 
time,  but  had  waited  for  me,  let  me  catch  it 
up  and,  now,  enjoy  it  as  I  never  could  have 
enjoyed  it  then. 

I  walked  liome  that  night,  in  remembrance 
of  that  first  miserable  walk  away  from  that 
studio,  and  because  I  like  to  be  happy  in  the 
exact  places  where  I  have  been  miserable.  I 
wanted  to  be  alone  for  a  little  while,  too,  to 
think  out  what  had  happened.  And  all  the 
way  home  that  night,  and  all  the  evening  when 
I  did  no  work,  the  thing  which  kept  recurring 
to  me  was  the  magic  of  a  universe  in  which 
herrings  and  the  absence  of  black  sateen  aprons 
permit  immortal  beings  to  draw  a  little  nearer 
to  each  other. 

The  days  were  all  happy.  That  combina- 
tion of  fellowship  and  its  humor,  together 
with  a  complete  impersonality  which  yet  ex- 


250    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

quisitely  takes  account  of  all  human  personality 
and  variously  values  it,  was  something  which  I 
had  never  before  known  in  any  man.  I  had  not, 
in  fact,  known  that  it  was  in  the  world.  It  is 
exceedingly  rare — ^yet.  Most  women  die  with- 
out knowing  that  it  does  occasionally  exist. 
But  it  presages  the  thing  which  lies  somewhere 
there,  beyond  the  border  of  the  present,  beside 
which  the  spectacle  of  romantic  love  without  it 
will  be  as  absurd  as  chivalry  itself. 

I  used  to  think,  in  those  first  days,  how  glor- 
iously democratic  love  would  make  us — if  we 
would  let  it.  I  understood  history  now — from 
the  time  of  the  first  man  and  woman!  Not 
a  cave  man,  not  a  shepherd  on  the  hills,  not 
a  knight  in  a  tournament,  but  that  I  understood 
the  woman  who  had  loved  him.  It  was  aston- 
ishing, to  have,  all  of  a  sudden,  not  only  the 
Eloises  and  Helens  clear  to  me — they  have 
been  clear  to  many — but  also  every  little  ob- 
scure woman  who  has  ever  watched  for  a  man 
to  come  home.  And  it  wasn't  only  that^  It 
was  that  I  understood  so  much  better  the 
woman  of  now.    Women  in  cars  and  in  busses, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    251 

shoppers,  shop-women,  artists,  waitresses, 
char-women,  "great"  ladies — none  of  them 
could  deceive  me  any  more.  No  snobbery,  no 
hauteur,  no  superiority,  no  simplicity  could 
ever  trap  me  into  any  belief  that  they  and  I 
were  different.  If  they  loved  men,  then  I 
know  them  through  and  through. 

"Mrs.  Bingy,"  I  said  to  her  one  night,  "did 
you  ever  love  Mr.  Bingy  much?" 

She  was  re-setting  the  pins  in  her  pillow 
and  she  looked  over  at  me  with  careful  at- 
tention. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "they  was  a  good  many 
of  us  to  home,  you  know;  and  I  didn't  have 
much  to  do  with ;  and  I  really  married  Keddie 
to  get  a  home.  But  of  course,  afterward  I  got 
fond  of  him.    And  then  to  think  of  us  now !" 

"But  you  really  didn't  love  him  when  you 
married  him  ?" 

"No,"  she  said.  "If  s  a  terrible  thing  to 
own  up  to." 

And  there  again  was  the  whole  naked  prob- 
lem, as  I  had  seen  it  for  her,  for  Lena,  for 
my  mother,  for  all  the  women  of  Katytown, 


252    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

for  Mrs.  Carney,  for  Rose.  .  .  .  What  was  the 
matter  ?  When  love  was  in  the  world  for  us 
all,  when  at  some  time  every  one  of  us  shared 
it — what  was  the  reason  that  it  came  to  this? 
Or — as  I  had  seen  almost  as  often — ^to  the 
model  "happy''  home,  which  often  bred  selfish- 
ness and  oblivion  ? 

Yet  in  those  days  I  confess  that  I  thought 
far  less  about  these  things  than  I  did  of  the 
simple  joy  of  being  in  that  workroom  where 
he  was. 

There  was  a  day  of  rain  early  in  June — of 
rain  so  intense  and  compelling  that  when  lunch- 
time  came  I  left  in  the  midst  of  it,  while  Mr. 
Ember  was  out  of  the  room,  so  that  he  should 
not  be  constrained  to  ask  me  to  stay.  When 
I  came  back  he  scolded  me. 

"You  didn't  use  good  sense!"  he  said.  "Why 
didn't  you?" 

"I  used  all  I  had,"  I  replied  with  meekness. 

"If  that  was  all  you  had,  you'd  lose  your 
job,"  he  grumbled.  "Never  go  out  from  here 
again  in  such  a  rain  as  that.    Do  you  hear?" 

Torchido  not  yet  having  returned  from  his 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    253 

lecture,  Mr.  Ember  built  up  a  cedar  fire  in  the 
fireplace  and  made  me  dry  my  feet. 

"I  am  going  to  make  you  a  cup  of  tea,"  he 
said,  "from  some — " 

"Don't  tell  me,"  I  said,  "that  it's  from  the 
same  kind  that  the  emperor  uses?" 

"It  is  not,"  he  replied.  "This  is  another  form 
of  the  same  advertisement.  This  is  some  which 
was  picked  fbur  hundred  years  ago." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "I  dislike  tea  more  than  I  can 
tell  you.  But  I  should  like  to  drink  a  cup  of 
that." 

The  stuff  was  horrible.  It  was  not  strong, 
but  it  had  an  unnamable  puckering  quality. 
I  tasted  it,  and  waited. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"It  is,"  I  said,  "the  worst  tea  I  have  ever 
tasted  in  my  whole  life.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been 
shirred." 

He  burst  into  laughter. 

"So  I  think,"  he  said,  "but  lovely  ladies 
drink  it  down  and  pretend  to  like  it,  just  be- 
cause I  tell  'em  what  it  is.  Tm  glad  you 
hate  it." 


254    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

He  held  the  tin  over  the  coals. 

"Shall  I  bum  it?"  he  asked.  "To  the  tune 
of  *What  horrid  humbugs  lovely  ladies  are'?" 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  "give  it  to  some  old  lady 
who  will  think  it  is  just  tea." 

He  nodded.  "You  have  made  the  econom- 
ically correct  adjustment,"  he  said.  "And  that 
is  a  good  deal  of  a  trick." 

One  morning  when  I  went  in,  I  found  him 
sitting  at  his  table  pressing  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  to  his  closed  eyes. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Wakely,"  he  said. 
"These  two  tools  of  mine  are  rusting  out.  It's 
a  nuisance  just  now,  with  the  proof  coming." 

I  said:    "Couldn't  I  read  it  to  you?" 

"Frankly,  I'm  afraid  not;^'  he  answered. 
"I  belong  to  the  half  of  mankind  who  can  not 
be  read  to.  I  think  that  I  couldn't  bear  it. 
But  you  may  try." 

He  sat  in  a  deep  chair,  with  his  back  to  the 
light,  and  I  before  him,  with  a  little  table 
for  the  proof.  I  read  to  him,  doing  my  best 
to  keep  my  mind  on  what  I  was  reading.    His 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    255 

bigness,  his  gentleness,  his  abstraction,  his 
humor  were  like  a  constant  speaking  presence, 
even  when  he  was  silent. 

When  I  had  read  for  ten  minutes,  he  inter- 
rupted me. 

"It's  wonderful,"  he  said.  "You  can  do  it. 
I'm  trying  to  get  at  the  reason.  You  don't 
over-emphasize.  And  yet  your  voice  is  so  flex- 
ible that  you  aren't  monotonous.  And  you 
don't  plunge  at  every  sentence,  and  come  down 
hard  on  the  first  word,  and  taper  off  to  noth- 
ing. If  it  keeps  up,  this  is  going  to  make  me 
a  terrible  grafter,  because  I  can't  begin  to  pay 
you  for  what  this  will  be  worth  to  me." 

"I'll  stay  as  long  as  I  can  stand  it!"  I  told 
him,  trying  to  keep  the  happiness  out  of  my 
eyes  and  my  voice  at  the  same  time. 

In  a  little  while,  the  joyous  sensation  of 
what  I  was  doing  gave  way  to  the  interest  in 
the  reading  itself.  His  book,  I  found,  was  a 
serious  study  of  work  in  its  relation  to  human 
growth.  From  the  Hebraic  conception  of 
work  as  a  curse  to  the  present-day  conception 


256    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

of  work  as  conscious  cooperation  in  creation, 
in  evolution,  he  was  coming  down  the  line,  vis- 
iting all  nations,  entering  all  industries. 

It  was  curious  that,  in  those  first  days  there 
never  once  passed  between  us  any  word  of  the 
great  human  problems  in  which  we  were  both 
so  excludingly  interested.  I  understood  that 
doubtless  he  had  accustomed  himself  to  saying 
very  little  about  them,  save  when  he  knew  that 
he  would  meet  understanding.  I  had  been  at 
work  for  him  more  than  a  month  before  we 
ever  talked  at  all,  save  the  casual  give-and-take 
of  the  day,  and  in  occasional  interludes,  like 
the  interludes  of  herrings  and  tea. 

One  morning  we  were  copying  some  Chinese 
reports  giving  the  total  wages  earned  by  men  in 
seventy-year  periods,  and  some  totals  to  indi- 
cate their  standards  of  living.  Suddenly  he 
said : 

"Considering  our  civilization,  and  our  cul- 
ture and  enlightenment-business,  our  own  fig- 
ures, proportionately  to  what  we  might  make 
them  with  our  resources,  are  blacker  than  the 
ex-empire's." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF^  THE  MORNING    257. 

"You  can't  tell  it  in  totals,  though,"  I  said. 
"You  can't  indicate  in  figures  what  is  lost  by 
low  wages,  any  more  than  you  can  measure 
great  works  of  genius  by  efficiency  charts." 

"You  care  about  these  things?"  he  asked. 

"More  than  anything  else,"  I  answered. 

After  that,  he  talked  to  me  sometimes  about 
his  work. 

"I  wish,"  he  said  once,  "that  I  knew  more 
about  the  working  women.  I'd  like  to  get  some 
of  this  off  before  a  group  of  working  women, 
and  see  how  they'd  take  it." 

"I  could  plan  that  for  you,"  I  said,  "if  you 
really  mean  it." 

He  looked  at  me  curiously.  "You  are  a 
remarkable  little  person,"  he  observed.  "Are 
there,  then,  things  that  you  can't  do?" 

I  went  to  see  Rose  back  in  the  same  fac- 
tory, a  little  more  worn,  a  little  less  hopeful, 
but  still  at  her  work  among  the  girls.  She 
welcomed  the  suggestion  that  he  come  to 
speak.    He  came  for  the  next  week's  meeting. 

"Rose,"  I  said,  "don't  say  anything  to  Mr. 
Ember  about  me." 


258    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

Before  that  night  came  round,  something 
happened.  One  morning,  when  Mr.  Ember 
was  going  through  his  mail,  he  read  one  letter 
through  twice. 

"This  one,"  he  said,  'T  must  take  time  to 
answer.  My  lecture  bureau  has  gone  into 
bankruptcy." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "what  of  that?  You  don't 
need  a  bureau." 

"It's  not  that,"  he  said;  "I  own  stock  in  it." 

At  noon  he  went  out.  When  he  came  in 
his  face  was  clear,  and  he  went  back  to  his 
proof.  As  I  was  leaving  that  night  he  spoke 
abruptly : 

"Miss  Wakely,"  he  said,  "I  am  sorry  to  have 
to  tell  you  something — I  am  indeed.  After 
this  week  I  must  not  have  you  any  more." 

For  this  I  was  utterly  unprepared.  I  looked 
up  at  him  with  all  the  terror  and  despair  which 
filled  me.  "Fm  not  doing  your  work  well  ?"  I 
tried  to  say.  But — "YouVe  doing  my  work," 
he  answered,  "as  I  never  hoped  to  have  it  done. 
It  isn't  that.  It  isn't  only  that  this  failure  leaves 
me  with  very  little  money.  There's  thirty  thou- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    259 

sand  dollars  owing  to  lecture  and  chautauqua 
people,  and  the  company  hasn't  a  cent." 

"You  mean,"  I  said,  "that  you  will  help  pay 
this  thirty  thousand  ?" 

"There's  no  one  else,"  he  answered.  "Fm 
the  only  stockholder  who  has  anything  at  all. 
And  the  rest  have 'families." 

'*Can  they  compel  you  to  do  this  ?**  I  asked. 
It  is  amazing  how  the  brute  instincts  reappear 
in  areas  new  to  experience.  I  was  civilized 
enough  in  some  things,  and  yet  instinctively  I 
asked :    "Can  they  compel  you  ?"  , 

He  merely  stood  smiling  down  at  me.  "Most 
of  the  speakers  are  twenty-dollar-a-night  men," 
he  said.    "They  can't  lose  it,  you  see." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  and  went  out 
to  the  street  in  a  kind  of  glory.  So  he  was 
like  this! 

That  Saturday  night  he  handed  me  my  pay, 
with,  "Good-by,  Miss  Wakely.  I  can't  thank 
you — ^I  really  can't,  you  know." 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Ember,"  I  replied  cheer- 
fully, and  went. 

On  Monday  morning,  when  he  came  into 


260    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

the  workroom  with  his  letters  I  sat  there  oiHng 
the  typewriter. 

He  stared  at  me.  "Miss  Wakely,"  he  said 
in  distress,  "I  must  have  muddled  it  awfully. 
I  wasn't  clear — '' 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "you  were  clear.  But  I 
thought  I'd  enjoy  keeping  on  with  the  proof. 
May  I  have  a  clean  cloth  for  the  machine  ?" 

He  came  over  to  the  typewriter  table,  and 
stood  looking  down  at  me.  I  dared  not  look 
up,  because  I  was  worried  about  my  eyes  and 
what  they  might  have  to  say.  Then  he  put 
out  his  hand,  and  I  gave  him  mine. 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  get  typewriter  oil  on  you," 
I  said,  "and  it's  smelly." 

He  went  on  with  the  letters  without  another 
word.  There  were  two  great  envelopes  of 
proof.  He  never  could  have  got  through  them 
alone. 

The  night  that  he  spoke  to  the  girls,  I  went 
over  early  and  slipped  in  the  back  seat.  The 
hall  was  filled^  I  was  glad  of  that.  And  as 
soon  as  he  began  speaking  I  saw  that  he  knew 
how  to  talk  to  them.    He  was  just  talking  to 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    261 

them  about  the  fundamental  of  human  growth, 
and  how  the  whole  industrial  struggle  was 
nothing  but  the  assertion  of  the  right  of  the 
workers  to  growth.  He  showed  this  struggle 
as  but  one  phase  of  something  as  wide  as  life. 

"You  want  a  better  life,  don't  you?"  he  said. 
'*You  want  to  enjoy  more,  and  know  more  and 
be  more.  And  the  people  who  can  individually 
get  these  things  by  your  toil  you  are  set 
against.  .  .  .  But  what  are  you  working  for? 
Food  and  clothes  and  a  little  fun?  And  your 
own  children?  I  say  that  those  of  you  who 
are  working  just  for  these  things  for  yourselves 
are  almost  as  bad  as  those  who  work  for  their 
own  luxury.  .  .  .  What  then?  What  are  we 
working  for?  Why,  to  make  the  world  where 
oil  of  lis  can  have  a  better  life,  and  enjoy  more, 
and  know  more,  and  be  more.  And  weVe  got 
to  do  this  together.  And  those  of  us  who  are 
not  trying  to  raise  the  standard  for  all  of  us, 
whether  employers  or  employees,  are  all  out- 
laws together." 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  he  faced  that 
audience  of  tired  men  and  women,  and  kindled 


262    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

them  into  human  beings.  It  was  wonderful  to 
see  the  hope  and  then  the  belief  and  then  the 
courage  come  quickening  in  their  eyes,  in 
their  faces,  in  their  applause.  Afterward  they 
went  forward  like  one  person  to  meet  him,  to 
take  his  hand.  While  they  were  with  him, 
they  became  one  person.  It  was  almost  as  if 
they  became,  before  his  eyes,  what  he  was 
there  to  tell  them  that  they  could  go  toward. 

I  had  meant  to  slip  out  of  the  hall  afterward. 
The  last  thing  that  I  had  meant  to  do  was  to 
walk  down  the  aisle  and  put  out  my  hand.  Yet 
when  he  had  finished,  that  was  what  I  did. 

"You  liked  it?'*  he  said  to  me. 

"I  know  itri  told  him. 

"Ah,  that's  it/'  he  answered.  "Wait,"  he 
added. 

So  I  waited  until  they  had  all  spoken  with 
him,  and  I  wondered  how  any  one  could  watch 
them  and  not  understand  them.  One  girl,  new 
in  the  factory,  came  to  him : 

"Now  you  have  showed  me  where  I  belong 
in  my  little  life,"  she  said  to  him  in  broken 
English.    "Before,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  bom 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    263 

and  then  somebody  had  walked  away  and  left 
me  there.    Now  I  see  where  I  am,  after  all." 

Afterward,  Rose  came  to  me,  and  her  face 
was  new.  "If  only  we  could  keep  them  where 
they  are  now,"  she  said.  "But  when  they  get 
hungry  once,  they  forget  it  all." 

Mr.  Ember  and  I  went  down  to  the  street. 
"Don't  you  want  to  walk  home  ?"  he  said  to  me. 
And  when  we  had  left  the  push-carts  and  the 
noise,  he  turned  to  me  in  the  still  street : 

"Now  tell  me  ?"  he  said.  "How  do  you  know 
those  girls  so  well?" 

I  answered  in  genuine  surprise.  It  seemed 
to  me  he  must  know. 

"You!"  he  exclaimed.  "Worked  in  a  fac- 
tory?   At  what?    And  when?" 

I  told  him  some  of  the  things  that  I  had 
done.  He  listened,  and  had  no  idea  in  the 
world  that  it  was  he  who  began  it  all  for  me. 
He  smiled  with  me  at  my  year  with  Miss  Man- 
ners and  Miss  Spot.  "And  now  what?"  he 
asked. 

"Now  I'm  secretary  to  you,"  I  reminded 
him. 


264    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"You  are  not/*  he  said,  "you're  an  unpaid 
slave,  being  exploited  for  all  you're  worth,  and 
you  ought  to  be  on  strike  this  minute.  Seri- 
ously," he  added,  "I  can't  go  on  this  way.  Don't 
you  see  that  I  can't  allow  it?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said — and  indeed  I 
had  hardly  heard  what  he  had  been  saying, 
for  I  was  thinking:  Here — walking  along  the 
street  with  me — ^John  Ember,  John  Ember, 
John  Ember! 

"I'm  saying,"  he  observed,  "that  I  discharge 
you  from  to-night." 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Ember,"  I  said,  "you  can't 
discharge  me — don't  you  understand!  I've 
made  up  my  mind  to  stay  with  you." 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed.  "So  you've  made  up 
your  mind  ?" 

"You  mustn't  be  so  selfish,"  I  explained  it. 
"You  must  think  a  little  of  me.  Here  you  are, 
doing  a  big,  fine  work,  work  that  interests  me 
more  than  anything  in  the  worid.  I've  no  other 
chance  to  help  on,  except  through  you  and 
Rose.     Why  do  you  want  to  drive  me  out?" 

"But,  my  child,"  he  said,  "if  you  don't  mind 


^  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    265 

the  practicality  of  the  question,  what  are  you 
living  on?" 

"Oh,  that!"  I  said.  "I  pay  my  way  by  mak- 
ing Mrs.  Bingy's  lace." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "You  really 
want  to?"  he  asked.    "It  isn't  pity?" 

"I  really  want  to,"  I  told  him.  "That's  why 
I'm  going  to  !'* 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Then  that's  set- 
tled," he  said;  "I  own  up  to  you.  I  didn't 
know  how  on  earth  I  was  going  to  get  on 
without  youl" 


CHAPTER   XVI 

SO  there  went  on  that  relation  for  which 
this  age  has  no  name  of  its  own :  the  rela- 
tion of  the  man,  as  worker,  and  the  "out- 
family"  woman  who  is  his  helper.  It  is  a  new 
thing,  for  a  new  day.  There  has  never  been  a 
time  when  its  need  was  not"  recognized ;  but 
usually,  if  this  need  was  filled  at  all,  it  had  to  be 
filled  clandestinely.  It  used  to  be  the  courtezans 
who  had  the  brains,  or,  at  any  rate,  who  used 
them.  The  "protected"  woman,  sunk  in  do- 
mestic drudgery,  or  in  fashion  and  folly,  or  ex- 
quisitely absorbed  in  the  rearing  of  her  chil- 
dren, could  not  often  share  in  her  husband's 
work.  And,  too,  in  the  new  order,  she  is  not 
necessary  to  share  in  her  husband's  work,  for 
she  is  to  have  work  of  her  own,  sometimes  like 
his  and  sometimes  quite  other.  The  function 
of  the  "out-family"  woman  is  clearly  defined. 
266 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    267 

And  the  relationship  will  be  nothing  that  the 
wife  of  the  future  will  fear. 

It  happened  that  I  loved  this  man  to  whom 
I  assumed  the  relationship  of  helper,  and  that 
I  had  loved  him  before  I  began  to  share  his 
work.  But  it  is  true  that,  as  the  days  went  on, 
I  began  to  dwell  more  on  our  work  and  less 
on  my  loving  him.  It  was  not  that  I  loved  him 
less.  As  I  worked  near  him,  and  came  to  know 
him  better,  mind  and  heart,  I  loved  him  more 
but  there  was  no  time  to  think  abdut  that !  All 
day  we  worked  at  his  proof,  his  lectures,  his 
correspondence  with  men  and  women,  bent,  as 
he  was  bent,  on  great  issues.  Gradually  our 
hours  of  work  lengthened,  began  earlier,  lasted 
into  the  dusk;  and  I  had  the  sense  of  definite 
service  to  a  great  end.  Most  of  all  I  had  this 
when  I  answered  the  letters  from  the  workers 
themselves,  for  then  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
went  close  to  the  moving  of  great  tides. 

"You  speak  for  us — ^you  say  the  thing  we 
are  too  dumb  to  say.  Maybe  you  are  the  one 
who  is  going  to  make  people  listen  while  we 


268    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

breathe  down  here  under  their  feet,  when  we 
can  breathe  at  all." 

Letters  like  this,  misspelled,  half  in  a  foreign 
tongue,  delivered  by  hand  or  coming  across  the 
continent,  were  a  part  of  the  work  which  had 
become  my  life.  And  all  the  breathlessness, 
the  tremor,  the  delicious  currents  of  those  first 
days  were  less  real  than  this  new  relation, 
deeper  than  anything  which  those  first  days  had 
dreamed. 

One  day  I  had  forgotten  to  go  to  luncheon 
and,  some  time  after  two,  Torchido  being  ab- 
sent to  lecture  at  a  young  ladies'  seminary,  Mr. 
Ember  came  bringing  me  a  tray  himself. 

"If  any  one  was  to  do  that  you  ought  to 
have  let  me,"  I  cried. 

"Why?"  he  demanded.  "Now,  why?  You 
mean  because  you're  a  woman!" 

"Yes,"  I  admitted,  "I  suppose  that's  what  I 
did  mean." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  that,"  he  said, 
'Vou  cave-woman.  I  don't  believe  you  can 
cook,  anyway." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    269 

"No,"  I  owned,  "I  can't  cook.  And  I  don't 
want  to  cook." 

"Yet  you  automatically  assume  the  role  the 
moment  it  presents  itself,"  he  charged.  "It's 
always  amazing.  A  man  will  pick  up  a  woman's 
handkerchief,  help  her  up  a  step  which  she 
can  get  up  as  well  as  he,  walk  on  the  outside 
of  the  walk  to  protect  her  from  lord  knows 
what — and  yet  the  minute  that  a  dish  rattles 
anywhere,  he  retires,  in  content  and  lets  her 
do  the  whole  thing.     We're  a  wondrous  lot." 

"_Give  us  another  million  years,"  I  begged. 
"We're  coming  along." 

He  served  me,  and  ate  something  himself. 
And  this  was  the  first  time  that  we  had  broken 
bread  together  since  that  morning  at  the  Dew 
Drop  Inn,  when  I  had  ordered  salt  pork  and 
a  piece  of  pie.  Obviously,  this  was  the  time 
to  tell  him.  .  .  ,  My  heart  began  to  beat.  I 
played  with  the  moment,  thinking  as  I  had 
thought  a  hundred  times,  how  I  would  tell 
him.  Suppose  I  said :  "Do  you  imagine  that 
this  is  the  first  time  we  have  eaten  together?" 
Or,  "Do  you  remember  the  last  time  we  sat 


270    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

at  table?'*  Or,  "Have  you  ever  wondered 
what  became  of  Cosma  Wakely?"  I  discarded 
them  all,  and  just  then  I  heard  him  saying: 

"I  like  very  well  to  see  you  eat,  Mademoi- 
selle Secretary.  You  do  it  with  the  tips  of 
your  fingers." 

"Truly?"  I  cried.  And  suddenly  my  eyes 
brimmed  with  tears.  I  remembered  Cossy 
Wakely  and  her  peaches. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  quickly. 

But  I  only  said:  "Oh,  I  was  just  thinking 
about  the  'infinite  improvability  of  the  human 
race  I 

Then  Lena  was  summoned  home,  and  she 
begged  me  to  go  with  her. 

She  had  been  for  three  months  at  Mrs. 
Bingy's,  and  a  drawer  of  my  bureau  was  filled 
with  dainty  clothes  that,  with  Mrs.  Bingy's 
help,  she  had  made.  We  had  contributed  what 
we  could,  and  all  day  long  and  for  long  eve- 
nings, she  had  sat  contentedly  at  her  work. 
But  she  kept  putting  off  home-going,  and  one 
night  she  had  told  me  the  reason. 

"Cossy,"  she  said,  "you  remember  how  it 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    271 

is  there  to  Luke's  folks'  house — everybody 
scolding  and  jawing.  And  I  know  I'll  be  just 
like  'em.  And  it  kind  of  seems  as  if,  if  I 
could  stay  here,  where  it's  still  and  decent  and 
good-natured,  it  might  make  some  difference 
—to  it/' 

On  the  morning  that  the  message  came  to 
her,  Mrs.  Carney  had  come  into  Mr.  Ember's 
workroom.  Mr.  Ember  was  out.  A  small 
portrait  exhibit  was  being  made  at  one  of  the 
galleries  and,  having  promised,  he  had  gone 
off  savagly  to  see  it  on  the  exhibit's  last  day. 
It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Bingy  telephoned,  in 
spasms  of  excitement  over  the  telegram. 
Luke's  mother  had  fallen  and  hurt  her  hip. 
Lena  must  come  home. 

"And,  Cossy!"  Mrs.  Bingy  shouted,  "Lena 
thought — Lena  wondered — Lena  wants  you 
should  go  with  her." 

I  understood.  Lena  dreaded  to  face  that 
household  after  her  absence,  even  though  she 
was  returning  with  her  precious  work. 

"I'll  go,"  I  told  her;  "I'll  be  there  in  an 
hour." 


272    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

When  I  turned,  Mrs.  Carney  sat  leaning 
a  little  toward  me,  with  an  expression  in  her 
face  that  I  did  not  know. 

"Cosma,"  she  said,  *T  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing— while  John  Ember  is  away.  I  have 
wanted  you  to  know." 

She  had  beautifully  colored,  and  she  was 
intensely  grave. 

'T've  taken  it  for  granted,  dear,"  she  said, 
''that  you  must  know  that  I  love  him." 

I  stood  staring  down  at  her.  "Mr.  Ember?" 
I  said,  "Why,  no!    No!" 

"Well,  neither  does  he  know,'*  she  said,  "and 
I  do  not  mean  that  he  ever  shall.  I  should  of 
course  be  ashamed  of  loving^  Mr.  Carney." 

"Then  why — why — "  I  began  and  stopped. 

"Why  do  we  keep  on  living  together?"  she 
asked.  "I  haven't  the  courage.  And  I  have 
no  property.  And  I  have  no  way  to  earn  my 
living — ^now.  Cosma — I'm  caught,  bound.  To 
love  John  Ember  has  made  life  bearable  to  me. 
Can  you  understand?" 

Then  she  kissed  me.     "Cosma!"  she  said, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    273 

"I'm  glad  that  you  know.  I've  wanted  you 
to  know.  For  I  was  afraid  that  you  had 
guessed,  and  that  it  might  make  a  difference 
to  you  .  .  .  when  he  tells  you." 

"Tells  me "I  repeated.  "Tells  me.  .  .  ." 

The  blood  came  beating  in  my  face  and  in 
my  throat.  Seeing  this,  she  spoke  on  quietly 
about  herself.  We  were  sitting  so  when  Mr. 
Ember  came  home.  And  I  was  struck  by  the 
exquisite  dignity  and  beauty  of  her  manner 
to  him.  She  was  like  some  one  looking  at  him 
from  some  near-by  plane,  knowing  that  she 
might  not  touch  him  or  speak  to  him — ^not  be- 
cause it  was  forbidden,  but  because  they  them- 
selves were  the  law. 

Then  I  looked  at  him,  and  I  saw  that  he  was 
looking  at  me  strangely.  There  was  a  curious 
searching,  meditative  quality  in  his  look  which 
somehow  terrified  me.    I  sprang  up. 

"Mr.  Ember,"  I  said,  "they  want  me  to  go 
home — there  has  been  a  telegram  to  a  friend. 
I  want  to  go  with  her.    She  needs  me.  .  .  ." 

"Where  is  'home'  ?"  he  asked  only. 


274    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"In  the  country/'  I  answered,  and  had  on 
my  wraps  and  was  at  the  door.  "I'll  be  back 
to-morrow/'  I  told  him. 

Mrs.  Carney  had  risen. 

"Cosma !"  she  said  clearly.  "Wait.  I'll  drive 
you  home." 

As  she  spoke  my  name,  my  eyes  flew  to  hig. 
He  was  looking  at  me  with  a  kind  of  soft 
brilliance  in  his  face,  and  the  surprise  of  some 
certainty.  Then  I  knew  that  something  had 
happened  to  make  him  know,  and  that  now 
he  remembered. 

I  ran  out  and  down  the  walk  before  Mrs. 
Carney. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

IN  the  late  afternoon  light,  Katytown  looked 
to  me  beautiful:  the  weather-beaten  sta- 
tion, the  empty  platform,  the  long,  dusty  main 
street,  which  informally  became  the  country 
road  without  much  change  of  habit.  Lena  and 
I  took  what  Katytown  called  "the  rig,"  and 
drove  out  to  Luke's  father's  farm. 

We  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  Luke's 
mother,  helpless  now  in  her  chair,  broke  out 
at  us  shrilly :  "Well,  and  about  time,  you  good- 
for-nothing  high-fly!"  she  welcomed  her 
daughter-in-law. 

Luke,  eating  his  supper,  shuffled  up  from 
the  table  and  came  toward  her.  Lena  amazed 
me.  She  went  to  him  and  kissed  him,  not  with 
a  manner  of  apology,  but  of  abstraction.  Then 
she  opened  her  suit-case.  "Look,  Luke,"  she 
said.  "Look,  Mother,"  and  hardly  heard  the 
mother's  talk,  flowing  on.  Luke's  mother 
watched  her,  lowering.  Luke  commented  awk- 
275 


276    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

wardly,  and  went  off  to  the  barn.  Lena  turned 
to  the  sink,  filled  with  unwashed  dishes.  The 
clatter  of  these,  of  faultfinding,  the  murk  of 
steam  received  her.  But  she  moved  among 
these  with  a  new  dignity.  It  seemed  as  if  life 
would  have  let  Lena  be  so  much,  if  only  some- 
body had  understood  in  time. 

I  left  her,  and  walked  toward  my  own  home. 
But  for  that  morning  in  Twiney's  pasture,  six 
years  ago,  I  should  be  back  there  now,  in 
Lena's  place.  For  me,  somebody  had  under- 
stood in  time.  Before  I  knew  it,  I  had  broken 
into  swift  running  along  the  country  road.  I 
must  somehow  make  everybody  understand  in 
time. 

The  house  lay  quiet  in  the  dreaming  sun- 
shine. I  stepped  to  the  open  kitchen  door. 
They  were  at  supper.  My  mother  pushed  back 
her  chair  and  came  running  to  the  door. 

"Cossy!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  Cossyl  I  mean 
Cosma." 

"You  call  me  whatever  you  want  to,"  I  said, 
and  kissed  her. 

Bert  and  Henny  came  roaring  out  at  me. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    277 

They  filled  the  kitchen  with  their  bodies  and 
voices.  Father  kissed  me.  They  sat  with 
me,  while  Mother  brought  me  some  supper. 

"Flossy  dress, '  sis,"  Henny  offered  easily. 
"Day  after  to-morrow,"  he  said,  when  I  asked 
him  when  he  was  going  back  to  his  work. 
"We've  got  a  committee  to  meet  with  a  com- 
mittee of  the  traction  folks.  We  may  be  hot 
in  it  in  another  week."  And  when  I  asked,  in 
what,  he  added:  "Oh,  we've  got  some  fines 
and  dockings  and  cuts  in  wages  to  fix  up,  and 
they're  trying  to  make  us  pay  more  for  our 
dynamite — ^you  wouldn't  understand." 

I  turned  and  looked  at  my  brothers.  For 
some  reason,  never  until  that  moment  had  it 
occurred  to  me  to  count  them  in  with  those 
of  us  who  were  dreaming  new  dreams  for 
labor.  They  had  been  simply  my  brothers, 
ugly,  irritable,  teasing.  But  they  were  laborers 
with  whom,  as  strangers,  I  could  make  com- 
mon cause.  Bert's  great  figure  and  dead  eyes 
and  brutalized  mouth  were  the  figure  and  eyes 
and  mouth  of  "The  Puddler,"  which  I  had 
lately  gone  to  an  art  gallery  to  see! 


278    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"I  tell  you,"  Father  said,  "there's  new  times 
coming  for  you  fellows,  or  I  miss  my  guess. 
I  say  it  every  day  when  I  read  the  papers." 

So  then  we  talked,  Father  and  Henry  and 
Bert  and  I.  For  the  first  time  in  our  years 
together,  we  spoke  of  these  matters  and 
listened  to  one  another.  This  was  talk  such 
as  would  have  been  impossible  while  I  stayed 
there,  either  idle  or  drudging.  Now  I  was  a 
person,  and  we  could  exchange  impressions. 
It  came  to  me  what  family  meetings  might  be, 
if  each  one  w-ere  engaged  in  some  happy, 
choseft  toil,  with  its  interests  to  exchange.  And 
warm  in  me  came  welling  and  throbbing  an 
understanding  of  them  all,  as  fellow  human 
beings,  fellow  workers,  a  relationship  which 
the  sense  of  family  had  hitherto  obstructed  and 
bound. 

Presently  Father  and  t"he  boys  went  away. 

"Let's  sit  down  a  while  and  talk,"  Mother 
said  to  me,  turning  her  back  on  the  dishes. 
"Shall  we  go  in  the  parlor?"  she  asked. 

I  voted  against  the  parlor,  and  we  sat  in 
the  kitchen. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    279 

"You've  never  once  come  up  to  the  city, 
Mother,"  I  said,  "since  I've  been  there.  Won't 
you  come  some  time?  We  could  have  a  drive 
and  a  play." 

"I've  always  wanted  to  go  to  the  city  again," 
she  said;  "I've  always  wanted  to  be  there  Sun- 
day, and  go  to  church  in  a  big  church."  She 
looked  out  to  see  if  Father  was  back.  "Cossy," 
she  said,  "since  you've  been  up  there,  have 
you  seen  much  of  any  silverware  ?" 

"Silverware?"  I  repeated. 

"Not  knives  and  forks.  I  mean  pitchers — • 
and  coffee  pots.  I  s'pose  the  houses  you  went 
to  must  use  them  common."  And  when  I  had 
answered,  "I'd  like  to  see  some,  some  time, 
before  I  die,"  she  said.  "And  I'd  like  to  see 
a  hothouse,  with  roses  in  winter.'* 

"Come  on  then,"  I  said.  "We'll  find  some. 
Mother." 

"The  fare  up  and  back  is  just  exactly  the 
fire-insurance  money  for  three  years,"  she  said. 
"I  always  think  of  that." 

Later,  she  went  to  baking  pies,  against 
the  morrow.    And  she  scolded  somewhat  about 


280    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

the  lamp  wick  that  was  too  short,  and  the 
green  wood  on  the  fire  and  I  went  and  hugged 
her,  merely  because  I  seemed  to  know  so  well 
what  had  always  made  her  cross.  For  here 
was  the  same  condition  which  we  fought  for 
the  other  workers:  badly  remunerated  toil, 
which  was  not  the  real  expression  of  the  toiler; 
and  no  recreation. 

That  night  I  went  up  to  my  little  old  room, 
and  nothing  was  changed.  The  little  tintype 
of  me  was  still  stuck  in  the  mirror.  "Shall 
I  sleep  with  you?"  Mother  said.  I  lay  with 
my  hand  in  hers,  immersed  in  a  new 
knowledge. 

My  family  was  dear  to  me — not  on  the  old 
hyf)Ocritical  basis  which  would  have  pretended 
to  a  nearness  that  it  did  not  feel.  But  dear 
through  the  only  real  basis,  a  basis  which  we 
had  persistently  baffled  and  inhibited  all  the 
while  that  we  lived  together:  human  under- 
standing. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

I  HAD  planned  to  be  back  in  the  city  by  noon 
the  next  day.  But  there  was  something 
that  I  wanted  to  do  before  I  left  Katytown.  I 
wanted  to  go  into  the  little  grove  which,  far 
more  than  the  up-stairs  place  where  I  slept,  had 
always  seemed  to  me  to  be  "my  room."  I  went 
there  after  our  early  breakfast.  The  place  was 
considerably  thinned,  but  it  was  still  sanctuary. 
When  I  reached  the  fence  by  the  road,  I 
went  over  it  in  the  old  way.  As  I  went,  I 
was  conscious  that  some  one,  somewhere,  was 
singing.  As  I  struck  into  the  road,  the  low 
humming  which  I  had  heard  was  mounting. 
And  then  it  lifted  suddenly  into  the  words  of 
its  song.  The  man  who  was  singing  it  had 
just  passed,  and  he  had  his  face  set  from  me. 
But  I  knew  him,  as  I  knew  his  song.  Then 
the  time  and  the  hour  swept  over  me,  and  I 
sang  with  him : 

281 


282    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

"Oh,    Mother   dear,   Jerusalem,   Thy   joys 
when  shall  I  see.  ..." 

He  wheeled,  and  stood  still  in  the  road  and 
let  me  come  to  him.  And  the  song  broke  off, 
and  he  was  saying : 

"Cosma!  Cosma  Wakelyl  I've  <;ome  to 
scold  you!" 

"It  was  such  fun  I"  I  pleaded. 

"But  so  to  take  in  a  near-sighted  old  gen- 
tleman who  goes  out  of  his  mind  trying  to 
remember  any  of  the  thousand  faces  he  sees 
in  a  year  of  lectures — ah,  it  was  too  bad.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  was  trying  to  get  made  Over,"  I  said. 
"And  I'm  not  made  over  yet.  You  had  no 
right  to  find  me  out !  How  did  you  find  me 
out?" 

"I  went  to  that  gallery,"  he  explained,  "yes- 
terday. And  there  I  saw  Gerald  Massy's  por- 
trait of  you — and  underneath  he  has,  you 
know,  set  *Cosma.'  I  have  never  forgotten 
that  name — how  could  I  ?  So  I  came  galloping 
home  to  accuse  you.    And  there  sat  Mrs.  Car- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    283 

ney  calling  you  *Cosma/  before  my  eyes.  What 
I  can't  understand,"  he  ended  savagely,  "is 
how  I  can  have  been  so  dumb.  Now,  tell  me — 
tell  me!" 

We  were  walking  in  the  road,  which  had 
somehow  assumed  a  docile  and  appeased  look, 
like  something  which  we  were  stroking  as  it 
was  meant  to  be  stroked.  And  I  told  him  the 
rest,  beginning  with  the  hour  that  he  had  left 
me  in  Twiney's  pasture.  And  so  we  came  to 
Twiney^s  pasture  again. 

We  broke  through  the  wet  sedge,  and  went 
over  the  fence  as  we  had  gone  that  other 
morning.  And  presently  we  stood  at  the  top 
of  the  hill  from  which  he  had  first  shown  me 
the  whole  world. 

Then  I  did  my  best  to  tell  him.  "Mr.  Em- 
ber!" I  said,  "all  the  little  bit  I've  been  able  to 
make  out  of  myself,  you've  made.  I  want 
to  tell  you  that — and  I'm  not  telling  it  at  all!" 
I  cried. 

He  stood  as  he  had  stood  before,  with  the 
sky's  great  blue  behind  him.    And  he  said : 

"Then  just  don't  bother  with  it.     Besides, 


284    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I've  something  far  more  important  to  try  to 
say  to  you — ^the  best  I  know  how.  Cosma — 
will  you  marry  me?" 

In  those  first  days,  I  had  sometimes  dreamed 
of  his  saying  that — dreamed  it  hopelessly;  but 
sometimes,  too,  I  had  sunk  warm  in  the  thought 
of  it,  as  if  there  all  thought  had  come  home. 
Yet  now,  when  he  actually  said  it,  it  came  to 
me  with  a  great  shock.  And  out  of  the  fulness 
of  what  I  suddenly  read  in  my  heart,  I  an- 
swered him: 

"Why,  I  can't  marry  you,"  I  said.  "I  can't 
give  up  my  work  with  you!" 

He  looked  down  at  me  gravely,  and  he  made 
me  the  answer  of  all  men. 

"Give  up  the  work !  But  the  work  together 
is  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  love  you." 

"I  can  see  that,"  I  said.  "And  the  work 
together  is  one  of  the  reasons  I  love  you. 
But—" 

He  put  out  his  arms  then,  and  took  me. 

"You  said  you  loved  me!"  he  said. 

"I  do,"  I  said,  "why  of  course  I  do—" 

And  when  he  kissed  me  it  was  as  if  nothing 


"Will  you  come  and  face  it  with  me? 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    285 

new  had  happened,  but  only  something  which 
was  already  ours, 

"Then  what  is  it,"  he  asked,  "but  you  for 
me,  and  me  for  you  ?" 

And  I  cried,  "Oh,  don't  you  see  ?  That  after 
being  what  I've  been  to  you — knowing  your 
work  and  your  thought — I  can't  stop  it  and  be 
just  your  wife?  I  can't  exchange  this  for 
looking  after  your  house  and  ordering  your 
food,  and  sending  off  the  laundry  and  keeping 
your  clothes  mended?" 

"But,  my  child — "  he  began. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  I  told  him,  "you 
think  it  wouldn't  be  that  way.  You  think  we'd 
go  on  as  we  are.  We  wouldn't — we  wouldn't. 
All  those  things  have  to  be  done — I'd  be  the 
one  to  do  them.  It  would  be  I  who  would 
begin  to  play  myself  false,  I  who  would  begin 
to  do  all  the  little  housewifely  things  that  other 
women  do.  It  would  get  me — it  would  eat 
up  my  time  and  my  real  work  with  you — I  tell 
you  it  would  get  me  in  the  end !  It  gets  every 
woman !" 

"Well,"  he  said  again,  "what  then?" 


286    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

I  saw  his  eyes,  understanding,  humorous, 
tender.  "Don't!"  I  cried;  "it's  almost  got  me 
now — when  you  look  at  me  like  that." 

"Well,"  he  said  again,  "what  then?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  see?"  I  cried,  "Fve  got  my- 
self to  fight.  I  care  now  for  big  issues — for 
life  and  4eath  and  the  workers — for  the  future 
more  than  for  now.  We  are  working  for  them 
— ^you  and  I.  I  will  not  let  myself  care  only 
for  getting  your  food  and  keeping  the  house 
tidy!" 

He  looked  away  over  the  fields,  and  by  his 
eyes  I  thought  that  now  I  had  lost  him  for 
good  and  all.    But  he  only  said: 

"To  think  what  we  have  done  to  love — all 
of  us.  Of  course  I  know  that  the  possibility 
is  exactly  what  you  say  it  is." 

"Not  the  possibility,"  I  said,  "the  inevita- 
bility. Look  at  all  of  them  down  there — 
Mother,  Lena,  Luke's  mother,  every  woman  in 
Katytown — and  most  of  them  everywhere  else. 
They're  all  prostituted  to  housework.  Don't 
let  me  do  it!  You've  saved  me  this  far — 
you've  helped  me  to  be  the  little  that  I've  made 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  JHE  MORNING    2%7 

of  myself.     Now  help  me!     And,"  I  added, 
"you'll  have  to  help  me.    For  I  want  to  do  it  !'* 

He  put  out  his  hand,  not  like  a  lover,  but 
like  a  comrade.  And  when  I  gave  him  mine, 
he  shook  it,  like  a  friend. 

"I  will  help  you,''  he  said.  "Here's  my  hand 
on  it.  And  it  strikes  me  that  this  is  about  the 
most  poignant  appeal  that  a  woman  can  make 
to  a  man.    To  his  chivalry,  if  you  like !" 

And  then  I  said  the  rest:  "And  you  must 
see — I'm  not  a  mother- woman.  I  should  love 
children — to  have  them,  to  give  them  every 
free  chance  to  grow.  But  it  would  be  the  same 
with  them :  their  sewing,  their  mending,  a  good 
deal  of  the  care  of  them — I  don't  know  about 
it,  and  I  shouldn't  like  it.  I  shouldn't  be  wise 
about  their  feeding,  or  the  care  of  them  if  they 
were  sick.  And  as  for  saying  that  the  knowl- 
edge comes  with  the  physical  birth  of  the  child, 
that's  sheer  nonsense." 

"Oh,  utter  nonsense,"  he  agreed.  "Yes,  I 
know  you're  not  a  'mother-woman,'  in  the 
sense  that  means  a  nurse.  Many  women  are 
not  who  are  afraid  to  acknowledge  it.     But 


288    A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING 

you'd  give  strength  and  health  to  your  chil- 
dren— ^you're  fitted  to  bring  them  into  the 
world — ^you'd  love  them,  and  all  children.'* 

And  this  was  thrillingly  true  for  me.  "What 
I  really  want  to  do,"  I  said,  "is  to  help  make 
the  world  a  home  for  all  children — to  make 
life — and  their  birth — normal  and  healthful 
and  right,  my  own  children  included." 

"You're  the  new  factor  that  we've  got  to 
deal  with,  Cosma,"  he  said,  "the  mother-to- 
the-race  woman.  A  woman  whose  passion  for 
the  children  of  the  race  isn't  necessarily  to  be 
confused  with  a  passion  for  keeping  their  ears 
clean.  It's  something  that  we've  all  got  to 
work  out  together.  .  .  ."  He  broke  off,  and 
cried  out  to  me,  "Cosma!  Are  you  willing 
that  we  shall  let  this  beat  us?" 

I  looked  up  at  him. 

"It's  something  that  has  to  be  worked  out," 
he  repeated.  "All  that  you've  been  saying — 
it's  got  to  be  worked  out  for  all  women.  Well, 
it's  not  going  to  be  done  by  every  woman 
funking  it,  and  staying  unmarried." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MORNING    289 

He  put  his  hands  on  my  shoulders  and 
looked  into  my  eyes. 

"Are  you  sure,"  he  said,  "that  I  under- 
stand? That  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I 
know  and  feel  what  you've  been  saying?  And 
that  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  to  help  you  work 
it  out?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "Fm  sure  of  that." 

I  was  intensely  sure  of  him — sure  that  we 
looked  at  life  with  the  same  love  for  the  same 
kind  of  living. 

"Will  you  come  ?"  he  cried.  "Will  you  come 
and  face  it  with  me  ?  And  do  your  best,  some- 
how, to  work  it  out  with  me?" 

His  arms  drew  me,  and  in  them  was  home. 
And  for  my  life  I  could  not  have  told  whether 
I  went  to  meet  his  challenge,  or  whether  I  went 
because  we  were  each  other's  in  the  ancient 
way. 


THE  END 


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